


What's a fire and why does it burn?

by deirdre_c



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-04
Updated: 2011-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:39:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deirdre_c/pseuds/deirdre_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A retelling of "The Little Mermaid." A little bit Hans Christian Andersen, a little bit Disney, a whole lot of melodrama.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's a fire and why does it burn?

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译】What's a fire and why does it burn?|火是什么，它为何燃烧？](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3837295) by [Lehterasenko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lehterasenko/pseuds/Lehterasenko)



Jensen sat conspicuously on the forecastle of the ship, back straight, one hand relaxed and open resting on his knee, his other in a white-knuckled grip hidden under the double layer of wool lining his cloak. Anyone looking at him would have seen nothing in his face to give away the agitation caused by each plunge and roll of the bow in the choppy, dark sea.

He glanced over his shoulder at the gathering on the deck. Genteel courtiers mingled with ruddy-faced sailors, all equal at sea and in revelry, jostling shoulder to shoulder at the flowing taps of the kegs of ale. One of his men started up on a hornpipe, another with a fiddle, and Jensen was certain dancing would break out any minute; the pitching of the deck might even help it along. It was his birthday celebration and he knew that he really ought to go down and make a showing. His people already thought him aloof, a bit cold, and hiding up here in the shadows wasn’t helping to bridge that gap. It’s just… his presence in their midst would just make everyone uncomfortable, self-conscious. Why ruin his own party by attending?

He turned his face back into the wind and— appearances be damned— gripped the rail tight.

Salt water spit up at him. How he hated the ocean.

Eventually there were fireworks, the hiss and boom of their explosion drowned out by the hiss and boom of the surging waves. Jensen watched as blues and red and greens reflected off of clouds so low it felt like being in a cellar rather than under the sky.

His reverie was broken when the ship’s captain, Manners, swung up next to him.

“Your Highness, there’s a storm approachin’, and I’m afraid it’s going to be a rough one. I don’t mind telling you, I’m concerned." Just then, the sky was lit by streak of lightning so vivid it made mockery of the fireworks.

Jensen swiftly rose to his feet. “How can I help?”

“By gettin’ safely belowdecks and out of the way, if you don’t mind me saying so, Sire.” It’d long been a source of fond concern among the crew of his flagship that Jensen was neither a strong swimmer nor a stalwart sailor. And although he rarely responded beyond a reproving look or two, he took their good-natured teasing for the comfort it was meant to be.

The already strong wind had begun to blow the ship around in earnest, and fitful spikes of rain and sea spray stung Jensen’s face as he stumbled down the length of the gangway. More jags of lightning crowded the sky, lighting his way and raising the small hairs on the back of his neck.

As he reached amidships there was a sharp, loud _crack_ somewhere overhead, followed by a sudden _whoosh_ that sent his cloak billowing and propelled him forward. He crashed head-on into Whitfield, one of the crew, and they whirled in a mad pirouette before falling entangled to the deck. There was confusion all around, with deck hands running and orders shouted. Jensen sat up, trying to collect his scattered wits.

“What is it?” he demanded of Whitfield, as they both staggered to their feet. “What’s happened?”

“The bloody mainmast’s split,” he shouted over the roar of the storm. “Pardon my language, Your Highness, but it has. And now there’ll be hell to pay.” The deck tilted sickeningly under their feet.

All at once they both caught sight and smell of flames. Curses and commands rang through the night, overlaid with a dreadful groaning, scraping noise that Jensen realized must be caused by the rubbing of the ship timbers in an unnatural way. Whitfield pointed to the rail and bellowed, “Sire! To the lifeboats! Now!”

Jensen felt his heart thud like a kick to his chest and he started forward, only to be thrown to his knees again as the deck bucked and listed. He scrabbled a moment on the rain-slick wood, only to freeze as he watched the ropes holding a stack of cargo snap, sending a mass of loose crates and bales careening past. There was a bright shock of pain as one clipped him on the shoulder, another on the forehead, but he ignored it, letting himself tumble aftward to where a boatswain was pinned against the bulwark by one of the cargo boxes.

“Go on, save yourself, S--sire!” the man shouted, white-lipped, eyes like a spooked horse, his leg crushed and trapped. Jensen didn’t reply, just hunkered down, got purchase under the lip of the crate, heaved, shifted, and heaved again. The load barely moved, a couple of inches at best, but it was enough for his man to slip free, collapsing sidewise as the ship lurched once more.

Looking up, he saw that the evacuation of the ship had devolved into chaos. People were running, diving headlong from the sides, shards of rigging and gear falling around them into the raging water. Jensen grabbed the wounded sailor under the armpit and heaved him up, just as a burst of flame roared from the hatchway behind them, causing Jensen to pitch them both forward to the gunwale. He helped his man clamber over, shoving him in the direction of the nearest in the string of lifeboats bobbing just beyond the worst of the wreckage. But Jensen himself hesitated for a moment, paralyzed, balanced on the narrow wooden strip.

The sea spun past in a churn of black far, far below. He could barely see, dizzy with adrenaline, sweating and freezing at the same time. He kicked off his boots, trying to talk himself into jumping.

The decision was made for him by the flaming spar that struck him square in the back, sending him flying into the darkness. Jensen smacked against the icy, churning water, and before he could catch his breath, a wave crashed over him, then another, tossing and disorienting him so that he couldn’t grab hold of any of the hunks of debris skating past. One came right under his hands but he couldn’t hold on and it slipped away.

One more wave sent him under and he thrashed madly, blind, kicking and beating at the water, reaching out, not knowing which way was up. For a second he thought he could hear his men shouting for him, but then he was sucking in water, not air.

He stopped struggling as he sank, everything going salty and numb and grey. But before unconsciousness could finally overtake him, a strong arm slung around his chest. He was propelled upward, the clinging drag of the depths no match for his rescuer. And just as Jensen thought his heart would burst, they breached the surface.

He lifted his mouth to the sky, gulping oxygen, lungs burning. He gasped and coughed and gasped again, head and shoulders supported above the swells.

Despite the vicious roar of the wind and waves, Jensen heard a deep voice murmur in his ear, “Don’t worry. I’ve got you. You’re safe with me.”

His head lolled against a bare shoulder, and he felt the unexpected but recognizable slick slide of scales against the soles of his feet.

Then there was only darkness.

 

*****

 

Jensen found himself wandering the beach every morning. He’d carefully pick his way down the mountain-goat path leading from the cliffs where the palace overlooked the sea down to the shoreline. There he would walk back and forth on the white sands, where he’d woken seven weeks ago after the shipwreck.

He had never spent much time down here before, never before interested in getting any closer to the water than the spectacular view from his bedroom windows. And one would think that, after his dramatic near-drowning, he’d be even more skittish. Certainly his counselors and servants were, their normal care and solicitude over a member of the Royal House amplified to an apprehension that was practically smothering.

But for some reason Jensen felt drawn here. He would stand stock-still listening to the murmur of the wind in the hollows underneath the cliffs, though listening for _what_ , he couldn’t say. It’s not like he’d ever been much for day-dreaming. He’d watch the gulls skim over the surf at daybreak, every so often his heart leaping at the sight of dolphins surfacing. One day he even dragged a pallet down from the heights and laid it among the red-grey grasses in the dunes so that he could be lulled to sleep watching the spray off the rocks and the sound of the waves rolling.

The beach had become one place that brought him a moment’s peace. It didn’t make any sense.

Rarely did Jensen dig his heels in, but this was the one time of day he demanded to be allowed some privacy. His guardsmen waited at the top of the steep stairs carved into the cliff-side. At least his minders knew he would not swim out into the sea; the strength of this pull had its limits.

One morning just after dawn, as he dared to wade slowly in the shallows, ankle-deep brave and nudging shells with a toe, he spied something on the shore up ahead, just west of the ragged jetty of rocks that marked the end of the beach. Jensen approached cautiously until he realized what it was, then broke into a run and threw himself on his knees in the sand next to the body that had washed up, face down on the sand.

It was a man. He was tall and broad-shouldered, beautifully made, the long bones of his body sleek with muscle. His skin was golden-bronze above the waist, pale below, like a sailor or workman, but his long-fingered hands were as fine and smooth as any nobleman’s. Jensen quickly reached out to check for a pulse and felt a strong, steady beat beneath skin that was troublingly cool in the chilly, shallow surf. Jensen grabbed the man under the arms and dragged him the ten yards above the tide line to the sun-warmed sand there. He panted with exertion-- this castaway was no lightweight, fifteen stone at the least-- then quickly whipped the cloak from his shoulders and knelt again to carefully cover the stranger’s naked form.

He needed to go fetch help. There was no way he could move the fellow alone. And yet he found himself lingering a moment, reaching out, placing a hand in the dripping hair, tangling his fingers in long dark strands. His thumb rubbed slowly over the curve of the skull where it met the long, graceful neck. _Checking for head wounds, that’s all._

 

*****

 

It was hours later before Jensen managed to free himself from an interminable morning of unavoidable, fruitless meetings with advisors and bankers and claimants of various sorts. Guests would be starting to arrive soon, too, to add to his obligations. His eyes itched with fatigue and his jaw ached from clenching, but he held himself straight and still until the last of the petitioners was dismissed from the receiving room. It was what a prince was expected to do.

It’s not as if he was unused to it. He’d been a public figure since the day he was born, and he’d shouldered the particular burden of ruling for almost a year now. But these last few weeks, the nature of the burden had become so personal, he felt wrung out and hollow.

He glanced over to the far wall, where the low dais with its collection of five ceremonial, carved-and-gilt oak chairs stood empty. His parents’ thrones had high, wide backs and elaborate embroidered cushions; Jensen’s and his siblings’ were lower and simpler, but still elegant. Jensen himself refused to sit there for anything less than the most formal occasions, having ordered a large round table arranged for the purpose of court business. It was a small eccentricity, but one most people understood.

He stood, stretched. Chancellor Lehne sidled up to him before he could make his escape.

“The man you found on the beach? I have had him placed in one of the guest rooms in the South Wing under guard until he is well enough to be on his way.”

“Thank you, Fredric.” Jensen smiled, but he could not help the thin blade-like edge that crept into his voice. “However, under the circumstances, having been the one who found him, I count myself responsible for determining his well-being.”

“You have other matters weighing on your mind, Your Majesty. Leave this tedious business to me.”

“Tedium is not at issue.”

“But—“

“That will be all for today, Chancellor.”

“Yes, my lord Prince,” Lehne replied smoothly, and withdrew.

Jensen knew that his advisor was right, that the last thing he needed right now was one more duty on his plate, but curiosity had him in its grip. He found himself wandering over to the South Wing of the palace where the staff had ensconced the stranger in one of the multitude of currently unoccupied guest rooms.

He immediately identified which room was his target by the two guards lounging against the walls on either side of the deep-paneled double doors. When they spied him approaching, the men quickly pulled to attention, but the one on the right was an old veteran of the palace guard and he threw Jensen a broad grin.

“’Mornin’, Your Highness. Come to check on the castaway?”

“Um…. Yes. Indeed.” Jensen hesitated, suddenly reluctant to go in. “Any news, James?”

“Well, he’s awake now. Seems harmless enough, but the poor kid’s apparently lost his voice. Can’t speak a word.”

“I see.” Jensen stared at the door for a moment, then turned to leave.

“Aren’t you going in, Sire?” the other guard asked.

“Oh. Of course. I should… greet our guest.” This was foolish. Why should he be nervous of an interview with some chance stranger? He set chin a bit higher as his men simultaneously swung open the doors, resolving to stay but a moment, assure himself of the man’s good health, and be on his way.

The room was typical of this wing of the palace, expansive and comfortable and low-ceilinged with a small bank of lead-paned windows facing the sea. Jensen observed that it was appointed with a writing desk and a cozy seating area of couch and two chairs and a strange claw-foot settee Jensen couldn’t recall seeing before, all set before a grate within which crackled a small fire, despite the mild weather.

The space was dominated, however, by a huge four-poster bed set against the near wall. It was a veritable confection of sunny yellows and pale pinks; the tufted curtains pulled back to reveal mounds of duvets and pillows reminded Jensen of a bowl of Italian sherbet. In the middle of this froth of bedding sat the stranger, propped up against the headboard and sipping from a steaming cup of what Jensen could smell was hot chocolate, his eyes closed in apparent ecstasy.

The sight of him brought Jensen up short.

He was even bigger than Jensen recalled from the beach, his hands wrapped around the mug of chocolate made it look like a toy doll’s, and his scandalously bare shoulders seemed to stretch the width of the huge bed. He wore his hair long as they did in his father’s and grandfather’s time-- rather than, as Jensen did, clipped fashionably short-- and it was tucked back behind his ears so that Jensen could clearly see the clean, striking lines of his face: sharp nose, dimpled chin, wide brow.

The three servants fluttering about at the bedside turned at Jensen’s arrival and immediately curtsied and murmured a chorus of “Your Highness,” despite Jensen’s standing order to leave off those kinds of formalities. He supposed it was for the benefit of their audience, and waved awkwardly at them to rise.

The stranger, too, seemed about to leap up at the sight of Jensen, but then realized he was as yet unclothed, and clasped the blankets up to his neck with both hands. A pink to match the pillows colored his cheeks.

Jensen felt like pinching himself. This? _This_ is who washes up on the beach and ends up naked in one of Jensen’s beds? He must be dreaming. Or, given the week’s impending events, there was a strong possibility it was a nightmare.

Breaking the silence, he said, “I am Jensen, of the House of Ackles. I am the sovereign in this land. Welcome.” He immediately cut himself off. Jensen knew he tended toward sounding pompous when he got nervous, but this was ridiculous.

The man in the bed simply pointed to his throat and shook his head with an exaggeratedly rueful look on his face, then broke into a broad smile and extended his hand.

Jensen stared, first at the deep dimples that appeared along with the grin and then at the hand, strong and wide-palmed. There was a pause of several long seconds. Finally, one of the chambermaids leaned toward the stranger and, in an audible whisper, instructed, “His Highness doesn’t usually shake hands.”

The man simply shrugged and laid the hand over his heart instead, gifting Jensen with a neat bow of his head.

Jensen turned to Genevieve, who had spoken up, and asked her, “Is there no clothing available for our visitor?”

She bobbed another small curtsy in apology. “Nothing large enough to fit could be found in the general stores, Sire. We’ve sent for Gabriel.”

“Ahh. I see.” The eccentric little tailor would either have a field day with the challenge or a fit over being asked to work this project in with all the other chores he had at the moment. Jensen glanced back at the stranger, who was staring at him, wide-eyed and animated. _Never been this close to royalty before, I imagine_ , Jensen thought. But the look on his face wasn’t awe. He was… beaming.

The door opened and everyone turned to see Misha, Jensen’s valet, stride in clutching a bundle of silk cloth. “Success!” he announced gaily, but then, noticing Jensen’s presence, skidded to a halt. “Hello, Sire.”

Jensen raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

Misha replied, “Just helping in the search for something for our large friend here to wear until Gabriel can whip something up with those magical needles of his.” The bundle turned out to be a pair of pajama pants and robe, which Misha laid out at the foot of the bed.

“I see,” Jensen repeated. He winced internally. Yes, he was certainly making quite an impression with his debonair conversational skills.

The girls and Misha huddled around the bedside while Jensen turned his head to gaze out the windows, giving the stranger the illusion of privacy as he slipped into the pajamas. Jensen really should leave now. The list of tasks that remained to be seen to yet this morning was longer than he cared to contemplate. He continued to try to convince himself to depart as he overheard Misha say, “I’m apologize that there’s no top to match. Well, there is one, but it would never have fit you.”

From the corner of his eye, Jensen saw the man blithely hold his arms out to allow Misha to drape a robe around his shoulders, for all the world as if he were accustomed to valet service. But he caught Jensen peeking, and with another slight blush, he twitched together the front edges of the robe to cover as much of his bare chest as possible.

Jensen made a show of turning his attention back towards the tableau around the bed; he would look where he liked, thank you very much. But as the man went to stand out of respect, he let out a sharp gasp and stumbled forward down to hands and knees, his face twisted in pain.

Impulsively, Jensen leaped forward, and was as shocked as his servants—judging by the looks on their faces—when he found himself crouched beside their guest on the floor, one hand on his shoulder to steady him.

“Your Highness?” One of the attendants moved to come to their assistance.

“Never mind, Sophia. I have him.” Why didn’t he just let the servants help the man up? _I’m the only one here strong enough. I don’t care if it’s unseemly_.

Jensen heaved him up under one shoulder as best he could—the man was even taller than he’d looked lying down and seemed to be made of solid stone—and helped him limp over to one of the nearby chairs.

Once he was settled, Jensen asked, “Are you injured after all? What is the matter?” But the only response he received was a dismayed shrug.

Jensen watched as the stranger extended one foot and flexed it back and forth, wiggling his toes. He pressed on the smooth ball of his foot with his thumb, then stroked along the arch. He set his foot flat on the ground and applied some pressure, winced and stopped. After a moment, he squared his shoulders and returned his attention to Jensen. He lifted his hands, palms up, as if to say, _I don’t know, either._

They stared at each other a moment, then Jensen cleared his throat. “Well then, how shall I address you? You cannot tell me your name—” Jensen glanced over at the gleaming cherry writing desk. He picked up a pen in one hand, gestured toward the inkpot in the other. “Perhaps you might write it?”

The man flashed another of his bright smiles, dimples winking, and held his hand out for the implement. He examined it for a moment, turning it this way and that, his brow furrowed slightly. Then he nodded, seemingly satisfied, and stretched across Jensen for the stack of paper, inadvertently brushing against Jensen where he leaned on the desk, making all the hairs on Jensen’s forearm stand on end. He signed across the top of the blank white sheet with a flourish and extended it to Jensen eagerly.

Jensen glanced at it and then stopped to examine it more carefully, but the markings made no sense.

[   
](http://s37.photobucket.com/albums/e57/deirdre_c/?action=view&current=Screenshot2010-02-14at102103AM-1.png)

“I don’t understand.” The crisp paper rustled in his hands. “You can comprehend our language, but you can’t write it?”

The stranger’s face fell when he saw that he’d failed the task, and Jensen couldn’t resist reassuring him, “No, no! That’s fine. You’ll get along nonetheless. We’ll look for someone among the staff to instruct you in our style of writing, alright?”

Jared nodded and smiled slightly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Jensen crossed his arms over his chest, tapping one finger against his lips in thought. “And we still are stuck with the difficulty that I do not know your name.”

The stranger stared at him intently, that absurdly mobile mouth pursed for a moment, then shook his head as if to clear it, his eyes at last lighting up again, his mood constantly shifting like clouds on a windy day. He twisted to reach the desk where a breakfast tray still sat and picked up the earthenware container of orange marmalade. He spun back around and held it up for Jensen’s inspection.

“Yes?” Jensen asked, unsure of what he was supposed to do.

The man pointed one long finger insistently at the marmalade, the other to his own broad chest. His eyebrows quirked upward, inviting Jensen to guess.

“Jam? Jelly?”

The man threw his head back in a silent laugh, slapping one hand against his thigh. Jensen instantly longed to hear what it would sound like—loud and rich, he imagined. The man recovered himself, shaking his head and pointing again, this time indicating the vessel itself.

“Crock? Bowl? Pot? Jar?”

At the last one, the man lifted a hand, palm out, and nodded quickly, but then held up a single finger and scanned the room again. In quick succession, he pointed to a velvet chair cushion, a rose in a vase on the tray, and one of the attendant’s dresses.

“Red,” Jensen replied. “Jar-red?”

This inspired another small, soundless laugh, pink tongue pressed against the back of his teeth. Shaking his head, the man held his hands out about a foot apart and then brought them together as if he were squeezing an accordion.

Jensen tried again. “Jared?” He was rewarded with a pleased nod.

Jensen turned to servants, “Would you please arrange for someone to show Jared around the palace and grounds? He’s welcome anywhere he wishes to go.”

Jensen turned back to Jared. “Now we merely have to determine just where you came from and how you got here.” Jared blanched a little, expressive brow again wrinkling between the eyes. Jensen was intrigued.

He was considering how to press for information from someone who couldn’t answer much beyond a nod for ‘yes’ or ‘no’ when Gabriel entered in a flurry of motion, nodding to each of them in turn. “Good morning, Your Highness. Ladies. Misha.” Jensen watched as Gabriel bustled over to the visitor— _Jared_ —looking him up and down critically. “Hmmm, I see what all the commotion is about. Nothing I have will fit legs this long!”

At that, Jensen stood a shade too quickly and strode toward the door. “Well, I have much to do this morning,” he announced to the far wall, but then on impulse turned back to face Jared. “Shall you join me for dinner, sir?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two of the chambermaids exchange shocked glances. Jensen was notorious for insisting on dining alone unless he was obligated to entertain. _Well, sometimes a man wants a little conversa-- a little companionship,_ he insisted to himself. _Why is that so strange?_

Jared nodded his head with puppyish eagerness and, as everyone else in the room executed the appropriate bow or curtsey, Jensen departed.

He couldn’t help throwing one last look into the room, watching the stranger—Jensen tested out the name _Jared_ again, rolling it around in his mind—limp over to the bank of windows and fumble with the latch of the shutters, thrusting them open, flooding the room with the sound of rushing waves and the cold, fresh smell of morning.

 

*****

 

Jensen wandered back down the hallway toward the main staircase, trailing one finger along the horizontal groove in the polished wood wainscoting just as he’d done since he was a tiny boy and had to reach above his head to touch it.

His chamberlain, Kripke, intercepted him before he had made his way very far, gesturing anxiously to the ever-present sheaf of papers that comprised his to-do list in his hand. “Sire, the envoys from Mystische Fälle and Colline D'arbre have arrived early, both at the same time, and there appears to be some… controversy over precedence.”

As they continued on to Jensen’s offices in the main part of the palace, talking over the idiocies of nobility and diplomatic necessities and the various decisions that needed to be made immediately, Jensen relegated thoughts of Jared to the back of his mind. They didn’t stay there for long, however, as, over the course of the day, Jensen felt as if he saw Jared everywhere he looked.

 

*****

 

Lunch had probably been offered to Jensen several times, but if it had—between soothing diplomatic ruffled feathers, signing letters of credit, and approving musical programs for the next six formal dining occasions—Jensen had ignored it. As a result, sometime mid-afternoon his stomach began rumbling in an alarming and uncouth manner, sending him out of his office and across the sunlit courtyard. He could’ve very easily called for a tray, but he loved visiting the enormous expanse of rooms off of the main banquet hall that comprised the palace kitchens: long counters gleaming steel and rough wood, massive copper pots the size of bathtubs, banks of knives and ladles and implements of uncertain employ everywhere, cupboards and hidden nooks, the constant heavy aroma of fresh-baked bread, and ever-present staff members taking breaks with gossip and a cup of tea. Jensen regularly scandalized Chef by snatching a quick bite of breakfast or snack from one of the kitchen storerooms, so his presence there would cause no comment.

Coming out of one of the pantries—apple in one hand, cheese in the other—he spied Jared sitting on a stool amidst a large group of busy scullery servants. Without thinking, he found himself ducking back behind the door and peeking cautiously around to see what was going on.

Across the open expanse of slate floor he could see Jared’s hands busy with something, moving industriously back and forth. He was shelling peas alongside Richard, both of them picking the pods neatly apart and stripping out the insides into a pot, as the other staff busied themselves with their own chores, with a great deal more laughing and joking than Jensen was accustomed to observing when they knew he was there. Jensen saw Richard swat Jared on the shoulder, and Jared throw an empty pod at him. He saw Jared hop up to help Alona as she stretched in vain for something on one of the higher shelves; instead of reaching the item for her, Jared picked up Alona herself to reach it, his hands nearly wrapping full around her waist, lifting her several feet off the floor.

Jensen slipped away before he could be discovered.

Later, he caught another glimpse of his unexpected guest as he hurried by the main library on his way to an emergency meeting with the master of the shipyards. The library was a point of family pride, enormous, filled floor to ceiling with crumbling, ancient texts and modern works and more books than Jensen could read in three lifetimes, although as a child he’d gone through phases where he poured through books like it was a race.

The afternoon light shone through the windows as he strode past a set of the library’s glass-paned French doors, illuminating Jared sitting at one of the room’s ornate mahagony desks, stacks of books piled around him, head bent over a massive open tome. Chancellor Lehne was with him— oddly enough—which immediately triggered Jensen’s concern, and he almost turned back to defend Jared’s right to be there. Almost turned back, that is, until his brain caught up to the fact that he’d seen his advisor leaning over one of Jared’s broad shoulders, smiling encouragingly and pointing to something on the page. Jensen tried to remember whether Fredric had ever smiled so warmly at him.

At the end of the day, Jensen made it back to the refuge of his office, wrung out from dealing with so many people, all of their problems inevitably his. With no one watching him, he thumped gracelessly down onto the cushion of the window seat, scrubbing one hand over his face and using his off-hand to fumble at the latch and swing open the sash. He leaned his temple against the wall adjacent and strained to catch some sound of the sea. Instead, he heard someone talking down in the gardens below.

“You’re the most handsome man I’ve ever laid eyes on, save for the Prince, of course.”

Jensen was eavesdropping, he knew, but how was he supposed to resist that? He peeked over the sill of the window and saw Sandra, work gloves on, picking her way through the garden’s tract of rose bushes with a pair of shears. Behind her trailed Jared carrying a large flat basket piled high with fresh cut buds in pink and red. Even though he was wearing what appeared to be castoff clothes from Clifford in the smithy, the coat loose around the middle, the breeches cut all wrong, Jensen understood Sandra’s admiration. There was something in the way Jared held himself—head high, eyes bright—that drew the eye and caught it. He exuded strength and safety and an artless joy and… perhaps Jensen was more exhausted than he’d realized.

“You must sneak into the ball with me,” he heard Sandra continue. Jared reacted with a look of surprise.

“Oh yes, there’s to be a ball. Tomorrow night is the big one, and not much good to come of it if you asked me, as if all of us don’t know it already. But, oh Jared, if you come with me, think of it! All the foreign noblewomen will look at you and say, ‘Who is that dashing man? I do believe I’m in love and must dance with him, and my rich young son must marry the servant girl standing at his side.’”

Jared laughed silently and tugged at Sandra’s braid. He shook his head ruefully but then shot a glace up toward the second floor windows, where Jensen barely jerked away in time to hide.

He strained to keep listening, heard Sandra continue her one-sided chatter as she led Jared farther down the path in their work. “But it might happen! It does in all the fairytales. Besides, once Gabriel’s through dressing you, you’ll rival even Prince Jensen; all of us are helping him sew in our spare time. Please say you’ll come… or, rather, _nod_ you’ll come.”

He heard the tinkle of her laughter fade as they turned the corner, and Jensen, foolishly, felt a little jealous. Jealous of how Jared could arrive out of nowhere, not a penny to his name or even the ability to speak, for god’s sake, and yet make friends with the entire palace. Jensen knew his staff were fond of him— after all, they’d either practically raised him or been raised alongside him—but he’d never had that easy way of ingratiating himself, of flirting or teasing people into laughter and admiration.

But, even more keenly, he was jealous that he was not the one on the receiving end of Jared’s attention. Here it was being showered around the palace and Jensen was left out, standing in the shadows.

This was madness, really; he knew he should send Jared away. His presence was a distraction, throwing off Jensen’s equilibrium at the worst possible moment. He should gift Jared with some funds, a formal escort, even find him a place in someone else’s court, if that’s what he wished.

But the thought of sending Jared away was like deliberately letting go of that last spar of wood and letting himself sink.

Jensen considered whether this was really about Jared at all. It was probably just a simple crush, a way for Jensen to distract himself from his duty, to hide in the fantasy of a beautiful, mysterious lover. It had been so long since Jensen had allowed himself to look with longing, allowed himself to want. When he’d been at the university, things had been so much simpler: discreet trysts with classmates, all noble-born and unintimidated by a second son from a trifling little country not much bigger than many of their outlying estates. Marriage awaited most of them at some point, they knew, but other kinds of relationships were accepted as part of the life of so many young men thrust together. It had been easy to find each other, moments of soft, quiet kissing under the stairs and drunken fumbling after a night of gambling, long nights fucking and getting fucked with no consequence come dawn.

Now, here at home, he was wholly encompassed by being _Prince_ Jensen. So much was wanted of him, from him; the weight of ascending to rule, of continuing the Ackles’ line, pushed thoughts of a personal life out of his mind. Jensen found few opportunities for anything more than a quick, impersonal release, and even then, he was aware his lovers were often using him or, worse, allowing themselves to be used by him, for the favor he could provide.

Which brought his thoughts back around to Jared. The man was his guest, alone and unprotected, afflicted, with no means to protest mistreatment. Pursuing Jared would be an abuse of his power even greater than he already felt when bedding a willing partner.

Jensen shook his head, disgusted with himself. From what he’d observed in this short time, Jared appeared to gravitate toward women and would not welcome Jensen’s advances. And to top matters off, Jensen was not free to offer… anything. It was unthinkable, truly, and so Jensen resolved to think on it no more.

Jensen glanced over at the small porcelain clock that ticked away on his desk, then rose from the window seat. As he did every afternoon, he climbed the stairs from ground to first floor, taking a deep breath at the top of the landing to steel himself. With absent politeness, he acknowledged the respectful nods of another set of household guards as they opened a private door. Jensen entered, blind to the familiar luxurious tapestries and brocade bed-curtains, his footsteps echoing on the golden-tan parquet floor in the silence that suffused the dim room.

The attendant on duty—Danneel today— moved out of her chair at the bedside over to stand by the door in order to give him some privacy, and Jensen took her place on the velvet-cushioned seat, looking down at his father.

Every day Jensen came, and every day the King looked the same, as if at any moment he would sit up and rub his eyes and tease Jensen about his horsemanship or demand some coffee. But since the accident, he had neither woken nor spoken. He was fed and washed by servants, unresponsive to appeal, all of his plans for the county and his people and his son spinning into disarray under Jensen’s poor stewardship.

Jensen took the cool and unresponsive hand in his. “Papa. What am I to do?”

 

*****

 

Jensen fiddled nervously with his cufflinks waiting for Jared to arrive for dinner.

He stood in the middle of the private dining room where he sometimes hosted small gatherings, when necessity forced him to entertain. Unlike some of the other, more formal halls in the palace, this one benefitted from comfortable proportions: low ceiling, candle-lit wall sconces rather than massive chandeliers, a table meant for eight not fifty. The warm wood of the chairs was smooth and solid instead of gilt-edged and ornately carved, with soft cushions made for lingering.

Jensen was glad to not be caught pacing when the footman at the door announced Jared, who entered on his heels. But thoughts of his own appearance immediately fled and Jensen couldn’t help but stare, for Jared looked truly gorgeous. He was wearing dark trousers and a midnight blue coat cut perfectly across the shoulders. His high, starched white shirt-collar and cravat highlighted the golden-brown of his throat and face. He ducked head at Jensen’s inspection—clearly used to hiding behind the hair that was swept back off his forehead in an elegant wave and back into a queue—and indicated his outfit with an awkward, embarrassed gesture.

Jensen cleared his throat. “Um, yes. It suits you. Gabe is certainly a master.”

The concern on Jared’s countenance cleared and, much to Jensen’s amusement, he immediately turned away and began wandering around the room. Jensen watched him pick up small items off the mantle to inspect them closely, peer at the art, jump when he sounded notes from the keys on the pianoforte in the corner. Jensen was more accustomed to being scrutinized and pandered to than being roundly ignored, and it was unexpectedly pleasant to be able to stand back and observe Jared’s perambulations without being the center of attention himself.

As Jared slowly worked his way back around to where he started, Jensen cast about for a conversation topic. He said, “I trust you’re feeling better?”

Jared looked at him inquiringly.

“Your feet? Are they still giving you pain?”

Jared glanced down at them, his mouth pulling down at the corners in a quick, exaggerated frown. Then he smiled slightly and shrugged, tilting his hand back and forth, _so-so_. The smile turned into a smirk and he executed a clever pirouette, spinning full-circle and surprising a laugh out of Jensen.

The little scene was interrupted by Steven, who entered to announce that dinner was ready to be served. Jensen walked over to the place set at the head of the table, another set at his right hand, and waited for Jared to join him.

Jensen knew Chef and his staff were busily preparing for the horde of guests arriving tomorrow, but he also was confident that he and Jared would eat well tonight. The salad that Steven placed before each of them mixed greens with fruits and candied nuts and prompted Jensen to realize he was starving.

Jared picked up his fork, looked at it closely. He touched the tines with a hesitant finger, looking up at Jensen inquiringly, almost as if he’d never seen one before.

Jensen said, “That silver has been in my family for at least seven generations.”

Jared raised a hand to touch the queue where his hair was pulled back, but when Jensen picked up his fork and speared a piece of pear with it, Jared set his utensil down as if it was hot and whipped both hands into his lap.

Jensen hesitated. “Are you not hungry?”

Jared blushed rosily in that way that set Jensen’s heart pounding. He shook his head and began to eat, watching Jensen intently, almost copying him move for move. It was the strangest first course Jensen had experienced in… well, as far back as he could remember.

Fortunately, Steven poured Jensen and then Jared a glass of Jensen’s favorite merlot from a decanter on sideboard. Alcohol sounded like the perfect solution to this problem. Jensen raised his glass to toast his guest and took a hearty drink, nearly choking at the way Jared’s whole face twisted when he took his own sip.

“So I take it you don’t approve of the vintage,” Jensen said, mock-sternly. But Jared took him seriously, shaking his head hastily and quaffing the entire rest of his glass in a show of enthusiasm.

Jared looked at him, bug-eyed, as the wine hit his tongue and then his stomach, and Jensen couldn’t help it, he broke out laughing. Jared, too, laughed and coughed and then laughed some more, all in that silent way of his, and after that the tension dissipated.

Steven brought in course after delicious course, but Jensen could not enjoy them fully as he became increasingly distracted watching Jared move: his fine, long hands as he salted his food—and he salted _everything_ —or buttered bread, the bunch and release of muscles under his jacket and the graceful line of his throat as he raised his glass to drink. Once or twice, Jensen thought he saw Jared’s gaze linger on him in the same way—a sort of hesitant hunger—but Jared quickly glanced down at his plate each time, hooding his eyes so that Jensen could not tell whether it was his imagination or not.

Jensen had always been uncomfortable with the expectations of light conversation, particularly with strangers, but the fact that Jared could _not_ speak put Jensen, contrarily, more at ease.

“Are you—that is—do you have a family? Brothers or sisters?”

Jared pointed to one side and shook his head then pointed to the other side and nodded.

“Sisters?” Jensen interpreted. This wasn’t so hard. Jared nodded again and, grinning, held up the fingers of one hand.

“Five? Five sisters? Impressive. I’ve only got the one and I’m worn out by her.”

Jared mimed looking around and then turned a palm upward.

Jensen sobered a bit. He missed MacKenzie fiercely. “She’s been fostered to the Comtesse de Farris this past year. She’s all that’s left of my family, but I’ve only seen her twice in that time.” He felt foolish telling Jared this, but it seemed to want to pour out of him, and Jared’s easy silence encouraged rather than deterred confidences. “Last year there was a month and more of terrible storms, which caused a series of flash floods throughout the region. My parents and brother, they were traveling back from visiting me at the University, traveling despite the rains that had already delayed their return home by weeks. They were caught by one of the floods when a bridge washed out only miles from here. My mother and older brother perished, my father was incapacitated and lies in a coma. Thus I am still only a prince and sovereign ruler at once.” Jensen couldn’t recall ever having to tell someone that story before; everyone he ever encountered had previously heard all the details of the calamity.

Jared covered his mouth in surprise, sympathy written across his face. Then he reached out and squeezed Jensen’s hand. Jensen looked down at where the brief warmth of Jared’s grip lingered. He couldn’t recall anyone having done that before, either.

“Thank you,” he told Jared quietly. “Having lost my own, I have to wonder whether your family is searching for you. Your parents? Or perhaps you are married? Betrothed?”

Jared’s color rose a bit, but he didn’t look away, just shook his head no, and Jensen released a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. What did it matter if Jared was unattached? Jensen would not be in a few dozen hours. He lifted his wine glass to his lips. “Ah, well. As it turns out, I myself am to be married at week’s end.”

As Jensen again drank deep, he heard Jared’s fork drop with a muted thud onto the carpet.

 

*****

 

Jensen proceeded to tell Jared the whole story. Of the loss of his parents and brother taking place hard on the heels of a terrible loss among the country’s farmers of their crops and among the royal navy’s fleet of ships sinking in those same storms. Of how his country’s sovereignty had, for as long as Jensen could remember and decade upon decade before, been threatened by rapacious surrounding nations, two on their borders and one across the narrow sea, all of whom coveted the Ackles’ rocky shoreline for its strategic possibilities.

Jensen’s father’s most recent solution had been to betroth Jensen to the Earl of Krupa’s only daughter, her vast dowry used to fill their country’s coffers, aid the farmers, build more ships, fortify their small army. Jensen had known Krupa’s daughter—Joanna—since they were children. She had always been ambitious, her lust for power and rank causing her to take little notice of him in the past as a second son; however, after his tragedy and ascension, she’d made sure Jensen knew of her rejection of several royal suitors’ offers in the past year as she pointedly waited for him to succumb to the necessity of marriage. Jensen told Jared that he felt bound to uphold his father’s pledge and, honestly, did not see a better solution to the dangers that afflicted them from all sides. Although Jensen and his advisors had been able to keep it secret, the country was teetering dangerously on the edge of insolvency, famine, and possibly foreign invasion. But, once allied with Krupa, he explained, Joanna would be queen, Jensen would save the kingdom, or at least keep it solvent and secure awhile longer; everyone won.

Jared had listened with rapt attention throughout Jensen’s tale, his eyes scanning Jensen’s face as if he were reading the story there instead of hearing it with his ears. When Jensen finished, they sat for several long minutes in silence: Jensen with his head down, worn out by the telling of how he’d ended up sold to the highest bidder, Jared out of constraint or disgust or pity, who knew. The candles flickered and the strong smells of the final uneaten cheese course turned Jensen’s stomach slightly.

Then Jared hopped up and walked around the table to Jensen’s side, motioning him up out of the chair. Steven made as if to intervene, alarmed, but Jensen waved him away and stood. He was not prepared for Jared to wrap his arms around him, pulling him tight against his chest so that Jensen had to turn his head to avoid getting his nose squashed into Jared’s lapels.

Jensen wasn’t accustomed to embraces that weren’t of an…amorous nature, and he didn’t know quite what to do. Hugging— _hugging!_ —Jared in return seemed more awkward than simply standing there and receiving the offering. Jensen assumed Jared meant it as a kind of support or condolence or some such. He normally wouldn’t allow this much over-familiarity, but Jared smelled so good, spicy and a little musky from the warmth of the room, and he was so very big that Jensen could lean in a little and Jared wouldn’t even notice the weight.

Jared gave a little extra squeeze, then quickly stepped back, putting a few feet between them. His breath seemed to be coming faster and there was something vital about look in his eyes, but Jensen couldn’t read it, overwhelmed by how small he suddenly felt outside of Jared’s arms.

They stood staring like that for a minute, then Jared looked away, down, brushed at his jacket with a wry, enigmatic smile playing around his mouth.

“Thank you, Steven,” Jensen said without looking over. “We’re done for the evening. Please let Chef know that everything was delightful.”

Jared stepped forward, extending a hand to the footman. Steven’s face was a study in surprise, but he stepped forward, clasping hands with Jared. He returned Jared’s small smile, then turned to bow to Jensen, and escorted Jared out.

Jared half-turned when he reached the door to give Jensen a tiny wave goodbye, which should have looked ridiculous on a grown man like him, but instead was sweet and charming and timid where Jared had always seemed so bold, and it made the heat rise at the back of Jensen’s neck.

Jensen barely restrained himself from waving back. “Sleep well, Jared.”

Just as Jared followed Steven out, Kripke rapped at the door and bustled in without waiting for permission. “Sire, I’ve been informed by the staff that they unfortunately need, ah… need The Gentleman’s current rooms in order to house additional guests on the morrow. They told me they will move his, um, things in the morning, but we are short of rooms and—“

“Yes, yes. I see.” Jensen was used to cutting Kripke off before he said the same thing three times. “Convey my instructions that Jared be given one of the rooms in the suite next to mine. I believe it has been unused for quite some time, but perhaps Jared will find a little dust preferable to sleeping above the stables or wherever else you were planning to consign him.”

Kripke’s eyebrows shot upwards. “Are you—The adjoining suite?”

“It’s not as if Joanna will be using it, you know,” Jensen replied, dryly.

 

*****

 

Jensen and Kripke—along with his assistants Sera and Benjamin—worked several more hours after dinner preparing for the arrival of Joanna and her entourage, as well as all the other wedding guests, so it was late by the time Jensen made it back to his rooms.

Jensen peeled off his coat, loosening his cravat and letting Misha help him out of the rest of his clothes and into a robe. After accepting a glass of brandy with preoccupied thanks, he dismissed the valet for the night, determined to read in a chair by the banked fire for a few minutes and then retire.

However, he soon found he could not settle. The liquor flowed over his tongue, warming his throat and chest, but did not soothe his agitation, thoughts of the days ahead churning through him.

Jensen set the book aside and got to his feet. He decided to check in on Jared one last time.

Just having Jared this close by was a novelty. He’d never shared rooms with anyone before, not even his brother, certainly not a friend or lover. Not that Jared was or would be his lover, he firmly reminded himself.

They’d already said their goodnights—and of course the staff could and would attend to any needs Jared had—but nevertheless Jensen stepped through the connecting hall and swung open the heavy-paneled door.

The light in Jared’s room had been reduced to one taper on the bedside table, and Jared sat motionless in profile. He was turned slightly away from the door and from Jensen, but it was plain what was going on.

Jensen found himself frozen in place by the sight of Jared sitting on the edge of the mattress, feet planted on the ground, trousers pushed down below his hips, cock held lightly in his hand. He watched as Jared used the other hand to unbutton the soft material of his shirt, letting it fall from his shoulders to pool at his elbows. Jared shivered slightly—from the cool of the room, from his hand passing slowly over his nipples— and Jensen shivered too, in answer.

Jared was looking down, appearing mildly perplexed, a vertical frown between his eyebrows, but as he began fondling and then stroking, his head fell back and the smooth look of pleasure on his face sent all the blood in Jensen’s body racing between his legs.

Jensen gripped the door handle like a lifeline and could not look away from the shallow flex of Jared’s hips as they began to thrust upward in time with his strokes, could not look away from how his legs shifted wider, how the candlelight glistened off of the sheen on his neck. The sound of skin on skin whispered in counterpoint with Jared’s sharp panting breaths, and Jensen had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from letting out a noise of his own, holding in the groan that welled deep in his chest as he pressed the heel of his palm into his own erection for some relief.

Jared was visibly trembling now, shaking his head back and forth as if denying the possibility of the pleasure he was giving himself. Then, still silent, Jared arched his back, powerful and careless, as ecstasy overtook him and he came, bursting over fingers and palm.

The blaze of heat that rushed over Jensen nearly sent him to his knees. He wanted to be close enough to smell it, taste it, feel the heat of Jared’s bare belly and thighs under his hands, but instead he spun heedlessly around and fled back through the doorway, only barely mindful enough to turn the latch softly as it closed so as to make no sound.

Jensen threw himself into bed and willed himself to sleep, but later, long past midnight, he woke in the stillness. In the darkness of his room, he waited for his body to calm, sweeping aside the remnants of a dream of strong arms lifting him, deep voice rumbling in his ear, dimples and shaggy hair and hands rubbing, teasing him to a fevered pitch. That kind of satisfaction, joy, it wasn’t meant for him. There was a time when he might have aspired to it, pursued it, but that time was past. He could not give himself over to a dream and see everything he’d built vanish in his hands.

He lay awake all the rest of the night, determined to keep his wits about him.

 

*****

 

For all Jensen swore he would not feed this obsession, that morning it didn’t take him five minutes in his office before he stole away to the kitchen to ask the staff where Jared was. There was a typical group of off-duty maids and footmen and attendants gathered, heads together, jesting and flirting. The composition of the assemblage changed, but Jensen was always sure to find whoever was free of chores at the moment gathered in one corner around a large butcher-block island, sipping tea and snacking on the heels of bread loaves and cast-off pastries provided in a steady stream by Chef and his staff.

As usual when Jensen arrived, the low hum of conversation cut off and everyone straightened to attention, Ian surreptitiously tucking a flask into his pocket and Katherine smoothing down her skirts and edging an arms length away from where she’d been leaning up against Paul. Danneel gave him a small nod and an over-large smile and informed him that Jared was down at the cliffs.

Intentionally neglecting to summon his regular complement of household guards, Jensen walked out from the palace and beyond the castle walls. Several sets of huge iron gates were set into various walls of the castle, one opened up toward the town, another to the harbor, another to the roads leading out into the world. This small postern on the south side, however, opened directly onto the rocky terrain leading to the sea cliffs. There he found Jared standing on a verge overlooking the crashing waves, his attention focused intently outward, like someone trying to catch the words of a distant song. He was coatless, and the deep sleeves of the fine-woven linen shirt he wore fluttered in the stiff breeze, the long vertical lines of his back outlined beneath the fabric.

Jensen shifted restlessly as he stopped a few yards away, wondering why Jared was here, reluctant to disturb him. Breathing deep, Jensen let the salt scent engulf him; he leaned against a rough boulder nearby, closed his eyes. He’d spent these last weeks and months preoccupied with grief, uncertainty, decisions, questions, new plans to be made when old ones wouldn’t do. His soul cried for rest.

When he opened his eyes, Jared was turned to look at him, surprise at finding Jensen there lingering in his glance. The hazel of his eyes reflected the shifting greens and blues of the sea.

Jensen, unsure what to say, wished he had brought food or drink with him to have something to do with his hands, an offering. Jared seemed somehow more closed-off, tentative this morning. Last night, Jensen had seen him wide-open.

“I often walk on the beach in the mornings,” he finally offered. “There’s a path just over that way.” He pointed east toward where the ragged stairs led down. “That’s why I came down. To walk.”

Jared glanced over his shoulder in the direction Jensen had indicated, then turned back to Jensen, nodding, smiling in that small, secret way again.

“Would you—“ He’d never invited anyone to go with him before. “Would like to join me?”

Jensen led them, picking his way carefully, hoping Jared didn’t trip and fall and carry both of them tumbling down to the bottom in a heap of snapped bones.

They reached the beach safely, and for a few dozen yards they walked side by side up the strand. But soon Jared began to stray, stopping to pick up interesting shells and bits, darting aside to investigate the purple grass growing from a dune. Jensen thought it was somewhat like walking with a pup. He barely resisted calling Jared to heel.

Jensen stopped, shading his eyes, looking out to the east, although no ships were expected until late in the day. Jared came up to stand at his shoulder, tall and solid as a bulwark. Jensen was too keyed up to linger long, and soon turned back toward the castle, moving down closer to the surf to stride along the hard-packed sand. He thought of Kripke, probably having a fit over how Jensen’s disappearance had already thrown the agenda for the day into chaos.

He glanced sidelong at Jared. “Today is my last day of freedom. We should do something—“ Jensen considered a word, one he couldn’t remember using in a long time. “—something fun.”

Jared tilted his head, encouraging. The breeze from the sea played in his hair.

“What would you like to do?”

Jared pretended to contemplate, clowning, opening his mouth as if to reply, then shutting again, scratching his head, as if rethinking what he might choose. Jensen, frowned, not used to being teased.

“There’s a horse fair at the town market every quarter day, which would be today,” Jensen said stiffly. “Someone from the palace always goes to as a show support for the local tradesmen. Perhaps you would ride down with me?”

Jared’s eyes, still twinkling with mirth, gave his assent.

 

*****

 

At the top of the stairs they met up with Jensen’s forsaken guards, and the prince was subjected to the indignity of a lecture on his safety, with Jared as witness all the way to the stables.

As they entered the hard-packed dirt courtyard framed by the low rows of wooden barns and storage shacks and kennels, a huge hound dashed up, tail waving like a banner, yipping faintly and trying to lick Jensen’s hand. Jensen crouched, pushing the animal down and over onto his side—where the dog proceeded to wriggle in abject humility—and scratched his belly.

“This is Harley,” he said, looking up at Jared mid-scratch. Jared’s expression was foolish-fond for the dog and he immediately got down on his knees next to Jensen to give Harley a sniff of his hand and run his hands behind his ears.

“I’d heard you’d found a new stray, Sire,” came a voice from behind them. “Only you would find a way to have the most handsome castaway in the seven seas fall into your lap.”

At the words, Jensen saw Jared blush and frown, his chin dropping, staring hard at Harley. Jensen’s heart dropped a little.

“And this, Jared, is Christian, one of my horse masters. More dog than Harley, if you ask me.” Of anyone on the grounds, Christian was the man Jensen would most likely call a friend and, in private at least, one of the most vocal opponents of his plans to ally with Krupa. Leave it to him to begin by practically throwing Jensen at Jared.

He stood and gave Christian a look that ordered him to be civil, then changed it to a silent plea when he saw the wicked gleam in his eye. Christian smirked, but held out a hand for Jared to take once he’d risen up from beside Harley. “Welcome, Jared. When your voice returns, I’ll be eager to hear the tales of what brought you here.”

Jared paused a moment to lock eyes with Christian, then nodded and shook his hand firmly, Jensen looking on and wishing everything could be this easy.

“We’re going down to the market,” Jensen interjected. He thought for a moment, but then, unsure of Jared’s riding ability and not wanting to embarrass him, asked, “Would you have a phaeton brought around for me… us?”

“Today?” Christian knew as well as anyone what lay ahead.

“They’re expecting an Ackles to show. I cannot break tradition,” Jensen retorted. After a moment he looked aside and said more softly, “And there’s no one else left to go in my place.”

Christian looked ready to say more, then glanced at Jared and instead gave terse nod, moving off into the stable to call for attendance.

Jensen felt Jared’s gaze on him like a touch, and turned to him, shaking off the melancholy and determined to embrace their adventure. He began to tell Jared all about the history of the market, the horses he and his siblings had bought there in the past, the many times as a boy when he’d been kicked after straying too close to a rowdy stallion, the five ways to tell if a horse is a good purchase or not.

His monologue ground to a halt when the phaeton was brought around, matched black mares in harness, and Jensen thought to himself that this was probably the most he’d spoken—casually, willingly, not on state business—in weeks. All to a man who couldn't even answer.

He shot a small smile Jared’s way and the two of them climbed into the light, two-seated carriage that suddenly seemed spindly next to Jared’s bulk. Jensen’s mounted escorts followed behind as they pulled out of the stables toward the fortified gates leading out of the castle. They passed through them, then wound down the hill, a sharp-turned road that led to the adjacent town. Jensen was determined to show off his skill at handling the ribbons and then scoffed at himself when he realized Jared likely had no discernment of good driving over bad. However, his companion was watching Jensen’s hands avidly, so Jensen thought he’d provide a treat. “Would you like a try?”

Jared nodded so eagerly that strands of soft hair, loose from his queue, flopped into his eyes. He shoved them away, tucked back behind his ears like a little boy, and reached out to take hold of the leather reins.

“Just take it easy and you’ll do fine. This pair is as steady as a rock.”

He gave Jensen a sideways glance. Jensen was about to offer more encouragement when Jared sharply snapped the reins twice, three times, and sent the horses flying. All Jensen could do was hang on.

The horse faire was in full swing, the square crowded with animals standing in uneven lines for inspection or being trotted out by hand to show their soundness. Jensen had retrieved the reins—with no small amount of relief—from Jared once they’d reached the more populated outskirts of the town. Now in the market proper, he pulled the team over to one side. A couple of young boys broke from a group playing dice behind one of the stalls and rushed to take their bridles.

“My thanks, Colin. Ridge.” He nodded to them in turn. “Just don’t let your masters catch you gaming when there’s market day work to be done.” He smiled to show he was teasing and flipped each of them a penny for their trouble. They bowed low to him and also to Jared, who had just climbed out of the carriage and stood soaking in the sights.

Simply being here, the sense-memory of happier days, lifted Jensen’s spirits, and he circled around to tug on Jared’s arm. “Come now. Let me show you around.”

Several shirt-sleeved men had been eyeing Jensen from across the square; once he and Jared moved forward into the fray one of them led out a pretty little bay mare, her snowy white stockings flashed as she trotted quietly up and down amid the confusion, away from them and back again.

Jared immediately approached her, both hands stroking nose and neck. Jensen merely gave the man the faintest shake of his head and walked on, drawing Jared with him.

“We’re not here to buy anything today, you know,” Jensen said. “Christian would slay me if I purchased any more mounts without his consultation.” He glanced back to where the horse coper was leading the graceful bay back into position. “Besides, I think you might squash her if you tried to ride her.”

Jared snorted and shrugged and pressed on through the crowd, which opened readily to let the prince and his companion through. Jared seemed to fall in love with every horse he saw, and the copers began to go to lengths to attract their attention and jockey potential purchases into view. The circus atmosphere of the fair heightened in their vicinity, with horses wheeling in circles, showing off their best paces.

At least one animal registered violent objections to all the activity. A few yards ahead of them, a handler was swearing at a big gray with a pale coat. The horse lashed out with its forefeet and bared its teeth. Jensen lightly clasped Jared’s arm to halt him.

They watched at a safe distance from the battle that suddenly erupted. The gray tossed its head savagely, hauling the handler right off his feet. The horse fought, alternately trying to bite and rear, while the handler hung on, yanking at the halter with what Jensen thought was rather strange enthusiasm, until he realized with disgust that there was a chain looped over the horse’s nose and through its mouth. Traces of blood speckled the animal’s head and chest.

The handler danced out of the way of a well-aimed snap, and just at that moment another man brought a bat down across the horse’s nose. It squealed and jerked around, eyes wild. He felt Jared jerk in sympathy where Jensen still had a grip on his forearm.

Jared pulled away from under Jensen’s hand and moved forward, walking slowly around the horse in the open circle that had formed around it. The gray swiveled its ears back, following his movement and blowing warily. Jensen called, “Jared! Come away from there.”

Jared ignored his command, edging closer to the gray. He opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head, frustrated, and made a little snapping noise with his fingers instead. The horse flinched at the sound, glared at him, and continued to shift and paw the ground.

Jensen could see the deep concentration on Jared’s face, the way he never took his eyes off the animal, no extra motion, every step smooth and deliberate. The horse, on the other hand, seemed to become _more_ agitated, tossing its head with rolling eyes, flanks shuddering.

“Jared,” Jensen said again, worried that he was about to see Jared savaged under those sharp hooves. But Jared didn’t turn or look away, simply gave a small wave of his hand. Jared came to a standstill just a few paces in front of the animal, and waited.

With Jared unmoving, the horse began to calm, its dark eyes riveted to him. All of the previous frenetic fair activity quieted as people stopped to observe the tableau. They stood like that for what seemed like forever: the horse, Jared, the crowd, Jensen. Then, although Jensen could detect no change in Jared, nothing he’d done, the horse’s taut neck muscles relaxed and it took a few steps forward. Jared reached up, the horse dropped its nose, and abruptly it was all over.

A ragged round of applause made the horse lift its head for an instant, but it dropped its neck again and pushed gently at Jared’s arm. Jared scratched its ears, blowing softly against its wounded nose. Then he turned back to Jensen, proud smile and bright eyes all for him.

Jensen felt a sharp pang in his chest at the sight. What an extraordinary man this was.

 

*****

 

They stopped at the edge of a pear orchard to eat lunch, someone in the stables thoughtfully having tucked away a hamper under the seat. At Jared’s silent urging, Jensen even invited the two young guards, Joseph and Nicholas, to join them, but they insisted they preferred to look after the horses, and proceeded to herd all five animals over to a nearby hillock to graze. Jensen and Jared sat in the grass next to the phaeton, forgoing the array of carefully packed glasses and plates to plunder treats directly from the basket with their bare hands and share sips of water from the same flask, chewing in companionable silence.

Back at the stables, Jensen watched Jared show off the gray to Christian, the two of them stroking it, examining it, leading it through its paces. He could tell that Christian admired the animal, but enjoyed watching him tease Jared with feigned skepticism, Jared growing more and more frustrated with not being able to defend his rescued friend’s honor in anything beyond pantomime.

Finally, Christian owned up to the game and called over a couple of the stable hands to take their new resident to a stall. The horse was lead away and he and Jared walked back toward where Jensen stood leaning against a post, Christian grinning and reaching up to clap Jared on the shoulder. Jensen saw a change come over Christian’s face as he spied something over Jensen’s shoulder, and he turned around to see Kripke striding toward them.

Jensen had no doubt that he came with the announcement of arrival of the ship from Krupa.

Jensen stood up straight, sobering, pulling back onto his shoulders the mantle of responsibility, feeling the world shrink and flatten. It was almost as if the Jensen of the last twenty-four hours was an imposter, a counterfeit who had arrived in Jared’s wake, and now the real Jensen was stepping in to taking his true place once more.

He thought that, eventually, he would regret allowing himself this day.

Kripke pulled up short in front of him. “They’ve been sighted, Your Highness, about an hour ago. You should have just enough time to change before you need to be down at the docks.”

Jensen didn’t have time to wonder whether Kripke had deliberately waited to inform him until the last minute, but he was grateful to be faced with the business of rushing back to the palace and hurrying through his ablutions and outfitting rather than being put to wait.

He looked over at Jared. “I—“ He hesitated then stopped, neither knowing what he meant to say nor wanting to say whatever it might be in front of his staff.

Jared merely looked at him for a long moment as if trying to memorize his face, then jerked his chin toward the palace as if to tell Jensen to get going.

Jensen went.

 

*****

 

Joanna knew how to make an entrance, no question. She stood poised up at the rail of the ship as it dropped anchor and was secured, having thrown her travelling cloak back so that her hair burnished bright in the sun like summer wine. Her throat and shoulders shown pale against the low neckline of her deep blue gown, embroidered with gold thread and jewels down to the hem so that the folds sparked with every tilt of the deck. A dagger hung from her girdle, smooth ivory crusted with malachite and emeralds, and Jensen recalled his younger self commenting when she’d first affected its wearing that she shouldn’t carry one unless she knew how to handle it.

He’d soon found she wielded more dangerous weapons.

The memory came back to him of the weeks one summer when a great horde of nobility had been guests at the Duke of Morgan’s estates for his daughter’s christening. Joanna at seventeen had chosen to confide in Jensen each of her elaborate plans for spiting, humiliating, or disgracing her many suitors, and Jensen spent the week an unwilling confidante in her systematic campaign of ruin. Most of those men had never recovered their good names.

Time had not dimmed Joanna’s looks one iota, and when she held out a hand for an attendant as an escort down the gangway, several young men from her retinue stepped forward to jostle for the privilege.

As Joanna descended from the ship, Jensen felt suddenly bleak and afraid. Not for himself, but for making a mistake, a fatal overestimation in his ability to control the consequences of his father’s chosen course. He cared nothing for what happened to him personally—today, tomorrow, in some distant, incomprehensible future—it was his failure to protect his family’s kingdom he could not bear to contemplate.

All along this road, he’d known it was a gamble. Krupa played his own game, Joanna herself likely had a half dozen plots afoot before even stepping foot on his shore, witch that she was. But throwing the dice with them was almost certainly the least hazardous of all the bad choices that faced him.

It was that “almost” which left the metallic tang in his mouth as he pasted on a welcoming countenance for his bride.

“Jensen.”

“My lady.” He bowed over her hand, not quite brushing her knuckles with his lips.

As he straightened, she stepped slightly closer, placing her other hand atop their clasped ones. “Oh my, so formal, Jen. And here I’d have imagined our years of friendship would have us past that.”

“Indeed, I have learned much about you over those years.” He paused for two beats. “My lady.”

She smiled, closemouthed, the edges of her mouth tucking under. Jensen rebuked himself for even engaging with her to that small degree. His antagonism would merely amuse her, egg her on.

Jensen turned with her hand on his arm and faced the crowd at her side. Together they waved, but amid the applause and cheers he felt as if he stood in a bubble of silence, remote and removed, enchanted to be stiff and still.

“Don’t look so melancholy, my dear,” Joanna said, continuing to wave. “Think of all the good we will do. You will feed your poor, I will feed my rich. Together we will transform Ackles into a force to be reckoned with.” She looked at him sidelong with a tiny shrug. “Or you can simply sit back and relax, if you prefer, and let me do all the work.”

He made no outward response to her needling, but he could feel a phantom itch at the center of his back as if from an imaginary target painted upon it. _And so it begins_ , he thought, staring grimly out over the wharf and the castle and the lands beyond.

The rest of the day was filled with a flurry of formal social activities: presentations and greetings, reception of gifts from guests and tidings from far away. Everywhere Jensen went he searched for a glimpse of Jared among the gatherers, but he never appeared. When Jensen finally retired— nay, _fled_ —to his rooms after dinner, he found that the adjoining suite was dark and empty.

Misha didn’t comment or ask about the prince’s day as he typically would, simply silently helped him disrobe and prepare for bed. His familiar presence eased some of Jensen’s tension, but didn’t reach the deeper ache in his chest. Jensen knew he could ask him about Jared’s whereabouts— Misha always seemed to know every detail of palace affairs— but he couldn’t bring himself to risk it, in the event Jared had… left. He didn’t know if he could endure the news of that at this moment; better to live in ignorance and hope.

When he was finally alone, Jensen shambled toward the bed. Halfway there, he happened to glance through one of the far windows into the night, his eye caught by a glint of fire. Striding over, he peered out into the darkness, where he saw Jared out upon the cliffs at the same spot Jensen had found him that morning. Now Jensen observed him as he crouched, coaxing a tiny bonfire with sticks from a pile next to him. Once the flames were established, Jared rose and, like a sentinel, looked out over the sea.

Jensen stared for a minute, two, five, until the aching in his throat could no longer be ignored, then pulled the curtains and turned away.

 

*****

 

The next morning, the day before the wedding, a hunt had been scheduled, and Jensen woke determined to ignore the swarm of doubts that threatened to overwhelm him. He pictured his own mind like a chalkboard, every thought that began to write itself urgently across, he wiped away clean. He focused on the smallest physical tasks, the tiniest details of his morning ritual, calmly, determinedly. He allowed himself to be dressed, fed, and accompanied outside to the stables where a throng of lords and ladies assembled.

Much the wild land surrounding the castle for acres and acres to the west remained unsettled, and belonged to the royal family. Across the tiny kingdom, the royal family held properties under vassalage or leased tracts to smallholders, but the forests here along the coast were reserved to the King’s use and left wild for hunting.

Many of the wedding guests had arrived the previous afternoon, so there was quite a crowd, all dressed in fashionable hunting attire, men in gleaming boots and women in snug jackets and jaunty hats carrying decorative little crops. Jensen knew many of them, but cared for few, so he used his reputation for shyness—or, now that he was older, and a prince, he guessed it was labeled ‘reserve’—to stand aloof.

He did not search the crowd for her. He did not search the crowd for him.

Amid the clamber and chaos, Jensen felt a brush against his leg and looked down to see Harley circling him, ears perked with excitement. “Aren’t you supposed to be with the pack?” Jensen murmured reprovingly, holding out a hand to be sniffed.

Harley butted against him and then again, the hound big enough to shove Jensen off-balance and backwards a few steps.

“Whoa,” Jensen said. “Leave off.” He tried to shoo Harley away, but the dog kept shepherding Jensen backward until he was at the edge of the company, hard by the kennel doors. Jensen figured this might be a good moment to find some privacy before he was compelled to mount up and join the throng, so he followed Harley as the dog slipped inside the building.

The kennel’s roof was higher on one side, and the high side held a tall line of windows that flooded the area with light. The long hall was lined with half-doors, the tops mostly open and the bottoms mostly shut. One wall by the doorway Jensen had entered was covered with hooks where dog-harness and gear was typically hung, but which had been mostly emptied for use by the hunt.

Jensen had spent a good deal of time here as a youth, but not as much since his return to the palace, and he was glad to see very little had changed.

Harley had disappeared somewhere, but Jensen heard a noise coming from one of the stalls, and moved forward to investigate, looked through the open top of one of the half-doors. The small niche was ankle-deep in straw and in the corner was a rounded, lumpy pile of newborn puppies, their tiny yips of play shrill in the quiet, their white-and-brindle coats shining in the dimmer confines of the stall. Next to the pile sat Jared, cross-legged in the hay, two pups crawling in his lap and one more cupped in his hands.

Jensen softly pulled the bolt on the lower half-door and stepped inside.

Jared looked up sharply at his entrance, but Jensen didn’t say anything. He knelt down beside Jared next to the pile and touched a small back, ran a finger down the fragile spine. The puppy made a faint noise, half bark, half squeak, and continued to roll and wriggle and nip at her siblings, nine in all, by Jensen’s count, including the three with Jared.

This close, he thought he could distinguish Jared’s scent, warm and masculine, underneath the stronger odors of hay and leather and hound.

Jared was preoccupied with the pups in his lap, but Jensen couldn’t stop himself from staring, taking note of the exact color of the small mole to the left of Jared’s nose, another on his chin, the way dark lashes shadowed his cheek as he kept his eyes downcast, things that Jensen had noticed before but hadn’t taken time to examine so closely. He rarely paid much attention to appearance—his own or other people’s— but with Jared he found himself wanting hours to drink it all in.

He saw Jared flinch at a particularly hard nip from a set of tiny, needle-sharp teeth. Jared simply stroked the pup and gently set it back down on the edge of the pile, from whence it propelled itself forward into the fray with dim, swimming motions of its tiny legs.

Jensen took the hand the puppy had bitten in his own, rubbing whisper-soft with his thumb over the small, pink dents on the meat of Jared’s palm. “Doesn’t look too bad,” he said, his voice rasping, and gave a slight cough to clear the tightness in the back of his throat.

Jared glanced down at their linked hands, where Jensen’s thumb continued to move absently. He closed his fingers gently around Jensen’s wrist.

Jensen felt weightless, tethered to the ground by Jared’s grip alone. It would be easy to let go, and he wanted so badly to fly.

He closed his eyes and lifted their joined hands to his lips. He placed a gentle kiss at the point of the pup’s bite, tasting Jared at last, his breath growing quick, his gut swooping.

They sat frozen in that moment, the warmth of Jared’s palm in his cupped hands, under his lips. Then Jared slowly, slowly pulled his hand back, slow enough to not break contact, Jensen following, mouth to hand, gradually closing the space between them, until at last there was none left and hands dropped away, Jared’s mouth pressed soft to Jensen's. The sweetness ran down through him.

Yes, Jared had kissed him first, but Jensen was the one that led the way. He proceeded to lick at Jared’s closed lips, coaxing him open. He put a hand to Jared’s jaw to tilt his head just right, pressing up in earnest, making it good.

It was just a kiss, yet Jensen found he could barely withstand the rush. He wanted to shove Jared down into the hay, strip him and touch him until he was trembling and eager, helpless but to reveal his secrets to Jensen. He wanted to make Jared cry out and to hear his voice at last.

Instead what he heard was the muted sound of someone outside the stall calling for him, then several people. Jensen realized that he’d been gone long enough that some of his servants or his courtiers were coming in search.

Jared pulled back first, eyes wide, lips swollen. He looked dazed and terribly young and Jensen felt a nearly irresistible urge to pull him back, to enfold him in his arms, to conceal him, to protect him. Fine as the edge of a blade, the moment held him in balance, but as the sounds of the seekers came closer, Jensen climbed to his feet and turned away without words. In truth, he knew that there was nowhere to hide.

 

*****

 

Jensen mounted. Joanna and the other high-ranking nobles were already astride their horses at the head of the party, preparing to ride out into the woods. The entire assemblage made a grand sight. Compared with the colorful, impractical cloaks and hats and sweeping feathers of the courtiers, Jensen’s staff was dressed plainly, but they moved strong and sure through the throng, the horses glossy and beautiful, the hounds a great bristling sea.

Turning in his seat— eyes scanning the crowd for a ready signal from his head huntsman, Sterling, that he was preparing to begin— Jensen recognized the gray at the back of the crowd, saddled with no rider. Just then he saw Jared join them, watched closely as he placed one foot in the stirrup and swung himself up, peering around as if astonished to find himself there. Jensen turned away so as not to be caught staring. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from grinning like a lunatic out of relief and gratitude at Jared’s continued presence.

Unfortunately, Joanna’s eyes were keen. “Jensen, my sweet,” she said serenely, “I see I have some competition.”

Jensen knew Joanna didn’t desire him for herself. In fact, he was certain that his known preference for other men was one of the reasons she pursued him; he would happily avoid interfering with her liaisons, just as she would happily ignore his. She likely had several lovers, past and present, among the assembled party itself, all on her leash like the dogs in the pack. The thought of Jared being likened to those expendable, interchangeable men, the feeling that Jensen had treated him that way not minutes before, made bile rise in his throat.

“I don’t know what you might mean,” he replied, but, like an utter fool, he glanced in Jared’s direction. Joanna did as well, and saw Jared watching them.

The horns signaling the start of the hunt sounded and he kicked his mount into a trot. The hounds and huntsmen led the way, with Jensen remaining in the front of the crowd of riders next to his betrothed, the rest of the group trailing out along behind. Laughter and shouts rang up from the courtiers, some of them tipsy with holiday morning indulgence, some simply eager to ride and celebrate in company.

Jensen let the horse have its head, knowing it would follow the stalkers while they were still in sight, or at least stay with the rest of the company. He was distracted, thoughts rushing in all directions, when Joanna called for his attention.

“I have a theory,” she told him, “that I’d like to test.”

“Indeed,” Jensen said. “And what is that?”

She reined in, bringing her horse out in front of Jensen’s to stop them both and then suddenly slid forward, as if she was falling from the saddle. As Jensen automatically reached out to steady her, she knotted both hands in the lapels of his coat, dragging them together in an embrace and kissing him passionately on the mouth.

Shocked into stillness, Jensen received the kiss for several long seconds before disengaging and setting Joanna firmly back on her mount. The courtiers nearest them crowed and cheered the exchange, as if the two of them were a real couple.

“What was that all about?” he demanded, perplexed.

“Ah,” she said. “I was correct.”

She nodded behind him and Jensen turned to see Jared’s horse galloping away, speeding headlong toward a nearby copse of trees. Jensen didn’t waste a moment, just took off on the diagonal, kicking his horse’s flank and gripping with his knees as he pursued the runaway and its rider. As much as Joanna might like to take credit for this, Jensen feared that Jared had lost control of his untested, half-feral steed and was possibly headed for disaster.

Jensen urged his mount on through the underbrush. His anxiety warred with the familiar elation of the chase, both fueling him like a mix of fire and pitch. The direction, the pounding gallop meant nothing; Jared’s safety, his return to Jensen, was all that mattered.

His horse lunged up a low bank that he hadn’t realized was there and thence into the wood.

Once inside the cover of branches, Jensen pulled up abruptly and stared. Jared on his gray stood in a dappled clearing just inside the tree line, the horse’s rhythmic blowing the only sound. Jensen passed his hand over his eyes and blinked to clear them. While Jared’s horse was rock-solid, Jensen’s own horse sidled beneath him, harness rattling loud in his ears, as he gripped the reins in a too-tight fist.

Jensen conceded that Jared hadn’t been trapped on a runaway mount; he was, in fact, running away. And why wouldn’t he? Jensen had kissed him, for god’s sake, and then turned his back on him moments later for expediency's sake. Jensen had told Jared that he had no love or desire or respect for Joanna, and yet his own eyes now had what appeared to be proof of the lie. Certainly it must seem like a cruel charade of some sort, and, whatever Jared was, Jensen knew he was not one to play the typical games of court life.

Jared’s eyes locked with Jensen’s defiantly. He held himself in the saddle as if ready to hurtle away again at any moment, thighs pressed tight against his mount, jaw clenched and shoulders back. The greenery behind him fluttered gently in the breeze. He looked like a hero from a storybook.

Jensen throat grew thick with longing. He thought, _You should have come sooner. You should have come when I had something to give._

“I’m sorry,” he said. “So sorry.” He thought about trying to explain, but then realized that it was for the best that Jared hate him. He opened his mouth to command Jared to leave and never return. Instead, he said, “Please, if you can— if you will, please come back to the castle.”

Jared didn’t move, Jensen didn’t breathe, and they might have stood there forever, but Jensen’s steadfast guards, left behind in his headlong rush, finally caught up to them.

 

*****

 

After the hunt was over, Jensen was tight-stretched, alert to Jared’s movements from afar as the crowd of nobles and servants streamed back into the castle. Even so, he almost missed it, just happened to catch sight of Jared being quickly escorted into one of the small antechambers by a group of six or maybe seven men. Men Jensen didn’t recognize.

Jensen tried to discreetly detach himself from the group of nobles who surrounded him, but they clung to him, continuing to spout inane compliments over his riding, his apparel, his servants, until finally Jensen simply turned and walked off, etiquette be damned.

He tried to devise a reasonable explanation for what he’d seen, but nothing innocent would come to mind, and the hackles on the back of his neck started to rise. Maybe it was foolishness; maybe his obsession with Jared was making him overreact. Jensen scanned the hall, identified Matthew and Charles as the nearest pair of guards, and summoned them with a gesture. He spoke in a low his voice, aware that a scene would make things worse, but with enough urgency that they would be prepared. “With me.”

He led them to the door he’d seen Jared and the others go through and threw it open, taking in the awful sight of Jared restrained by four men, struggling, one of the other men assaulting him, a punch to the kidney doubling Jared over in agony.

Matthew and Charles jerked their swords free, charging the group and shouting for the men to kneel down or be run through. Jensen found the long hunting knife that he had not yet unbelted gripped tight in his fist. He did not know himself to be a violent man, and yet he clung stiff-knuckled to the doorframe to keep himself from rushing into the melee and slitting the throats and the bellies of Jared’s attackers just to feel their blood run out over his hands.

In the end there was no violence; the men quickly yielded and were found to be Krupa’s retainers, nominally here as part of Joanna’s escort.

Jensen gave orders to Matthew and Charles. “Conduct them back to Krupa’s ship and ensure that they never set foot back on Ackles’ land. Ask the Captain to place several of our men at the foot of the gangway, just in case.”

The pair bowed and manhandled the offenders out of the room, leaving Jensen and Jared alone.

Jared met his eyes. Like an instant flame, it was there—the powerful awareness of Jared’s physical presence: of his body poised to fight, of where his shirt had been torn, revealing the very beginning of the strong line of his collarbone, of his mouth pressed into a flat and unyielding line. The windows were shuttered, tapers lit, and the candlelight caught and emphasized the curve of his brows and brought out glints of gold in his eyes.

Jensen didn’t think, just moved toward Jared, into him, forcing him up against the wall.

When his back hit the wall, Jared let out a gasp of breath which Jensen captured in a kiss, delving in deep then pulling back to lick and bite at Jared’s lips, seeking out that salt-spicy taste that he’d discovered in the stables that morning. He moved down to nuzzle at Jared’s jaw, behind his ear, Jared’s head falling back to expose the delicious length of his neck. He breathed out another tiny sigh, the sound of it touching a spark to tinder, fire racing along Jensen’s nerves, and without thinking he began yanking at Jared’s shirt where it tucked into his breeches.

Jared seemed paralyzed by the onslaught, passive and still. When Jensen began tugging at his clothes, he started to respond, but didn’t seem to know where to put his hands. They rested on Jensen’s shoulders for a moment and fluttered to his back, then shifted to his arms, almost as if to push Jensen away.

“What’s wrong? Are you injured?” Jensen pulled back, bringing them face-to-face, but Jared’s eyes dropped, not meeting his urgent gaze. Jensen’s stomach took a sickening lurch. “Are you… is this out of some sense of gratitude? Paying a debt? Am I—”

But before he say more or tear away, Jared gripped the back of Jensen’s neck, the other hand on his lower back and pulled him into his chest, pressing into Jensen’s hip so he could feel for himself the hard line of Jared’s arousal. Jared lifted one eyebrow and carefully mouthed a single word, _No_.

“I don’t understand, then,” Jensen said. “Why didn’t you—“ he was uncertain how to express it, it was just gut feeling: the awkwardness of the kiss, Jared’s lack of response, so different from this morning.

He looked up to see Jared’s face turn a deep shade of red.

“Are you—” Jensen couldn’t seem to finish a sentence. But it seemed so impossible to ask something like this, impossible for it to be true. “Are you…” Jensen struggled for the appropriate word, “...inexperienced?”

If it were even possible, Jared blushed brighter. There was a hot, tight knot forming under Jensen’s breastbone, part astonishment, part lust, mostly a desire to wrap Jared up and protect him from the awful, evil things of the world. From Jensen himself.

“How can this be? Whatever have you been waiting for?” Jensen let go and was pacing in bewilderment. He didn't even know _why_ he was distressed, but there it was. As he passed close, Jared reached out for him, halting him with a hand on each shoulder and giving him a slight shake, then carefully put his hand to Jensen’s face, caressing his cheek with the pad of his thumb.

Where just moments before he’d been hot, now the pit in his stomach went cold.

“Me? No, it cannot be,” he whispered, wonder and pain all intertwined. “You deserve so much better, Jared, and I am bound to another path even if I was worthy of you. I've chosen to give the whole of myself to the kingdom, I will not leave you with dregs.”

Of course, Jared did not respond, did not insist or beg or yell or protest. He simply looked, blue-green eyes reading Jensen's, searching for something that would never be there.

“Will you come to the ball tonight? Please?” Jensen asked, his heart breaking. “I would not ask it of you, knowing… I am asking more than I merit. But where just a few days ago I’d convinced myself this would be an easy thing to do, I’m now finding myself in need of support in order to get through it. God knows, I wish it were otherwise.” He stepped closer—refusing to distance himself or try to pretend there was only friendship between them—and pulled Jared down by the back of the neck until their foreheads were resting together. “God knows, I wish you could be mine.”

Jared paled a little, holding himself very still. Finally, he gave several slow nods.

 

*****

 

The ball took place in the Great Hall of the palace, of course. Famous throughout the continent, twelve massive pillars supported the high ceiling. Set far up on the walls were windows of stained-glass images from generations of Ackles. When the sun hit them, they filled the hall with a blaze of jewel-toned light, but as it was night, they were dark.

Looking around, Jensen felt much else seemed muted, even though it was unlikely others would have noticed. The pillars, windows, bright tapestries, floor shining with mosaic-inlaid tiles and velvety carpets. Within it all moved Jensen’s guests, as bright as exotic birds in a flowering jungle, fluttering fans and flicking coattails.

Joanna was late. Whether she was late on account of the time it took her to discipline her retinue—if those men had actually been acting on her orders, Jared would likely be dead right now, or worse—or because she wished to make a grand entrance, Jensen wasn’t certain. Likely it was a bit of both, plus other reasons he’d not yet fathomed. But the heralds were calling to announce her arrival at last.

Her gown was green and her hair, bright as new-minted gold, was dressed high on her head and permitted to fall in a profusion of curls down her back, giving her a semblance of girlishness. Her skirts were worked in some dizzying pattern that shimmered and moved as the light caught it, with the result that watching her elegant march down the long hall gave Jensen a faint sense of sea-sickness.

Jensen moved forward to greet the woman who tomorrow would be his wife, walking stiffly down the ballroom floor like an animal executing a trick it had learned in fear of a yank on the chain if it did not perform adequately.

When he reached her, he bowed low over her hand and, for her ears only, murmured, “You sent your men to attack Jared.” He didn't believe it, but he intended to try to put her on the defensive if at all possible. It was unlikely.

She arched an eyebrow. “Ah, my dear, you know me better than that. If I’d wanted to be rid of him, I would be much more subtle. Poison—” she curtsied to him in turn, “smothering— “ she continued, rising and taking his proffered hand, “—a fall from a height.”

As if on cue, the musicians struck out with the first notes, combined them into melody. Joanna gracefully stepped into his arms and they commenced the first dance.

It was their last dance as well, Jensen was determined, and afterward he planted himself firmly in his seat on the dais. The central throne—his father’s still—remained empty, with Joanna appropriating Jensen’s sister’s. There they awaited the formal roll-call and introduction of guests, as the party swirled on beyond.

Jensen was confident Jared would not attend despite his promise. What reason would he have? What did he owe Jensen? Jensen told himself he was thankful that Jared would not have to witness this after all.

Once again, however, Jensen underestimated him, and Jared appeared amidst the other courtiers to be presented to the prince and his bride-to-be. If Jensen had thought Gabriel had outdone himself with Jared’s clothes at their first dinner, it was nothing compared to the perfection of Jared’s ball attire. And if Jensen had harbored any doubts about Jared’s unknown heritage, his conduct at the ball confirmed that he might well be royalty himself.

Jensen sat on his throne and tracked Jared’s progress around the room. He chose dance partners from among those who lacked them, asking without words to escort matrons and wallflowers out onto the floor, where he guided them around with such grace and skill that other guests stopped to watch. Also, from what Jensen deduced, Jared had indeed helped Sandra and, from the looks of it, Sophia and Genevieve as well, to sneak into the ball disguised as guests and helped ensure that they were accepted into the revelry.

Joanna watched Jared as he spun another passed-over young woman around the floor, “Your pet is quite lovely.” She leaned over to whisper into his ear. “Maybe you would share him with me?”

Jensen drew back. One look at his outraged face and she laughed, a titter behind her gloved hand. “How charming!” She glanced back over toward Jared, who was finished with his dance and stood glowering at them across the dance floor. “See how his look gives him away? Such heat, such jealousy when he sees you with me.” Her eyes narrowed speculatively. Then she turned back to Jensen, running her hand along her thigh to smooth the folds of her dress, saying languidly, “I do believe I’ll let you keep him… if you’ll let me watch sometimes.”

Jensen took a deep breath, willing himself not to respond, and pulled his gaze away from Jared’s.

He stood and held out a gracious arm to Joanna, giving no hint to the watchful crowd that he would rather seize a poisonous snake bare-handed. He escorted her past fluted columns through the massive white and gold doors into the grand dining room. As the crowd coalesced behind them into an elegant group to enter in to dinner, and he saw Jared head the opposite direction, slipping out of the ballroom and down the shadowed hall.

 

*****

 

By the end of the night, Jensen had taken a great deal to drink. There were infinite reasons to do so, all bad, and some of them had nothing to do with Jared.

He had danced attendance upon Joanna as was expected. Had praised her to the crowd and kissed her cheek decorously as the ball dragged on for too many hours. Had accepted toast after toast to the loss of his bachelorhood until he could no longer hope to stave off the coming of the next day. Had scanned the faces of the courtiers, but never seen the face he was searching for.

He stumbled a bit, walking through corridors silent save for the footfalls that he made. He walked a matrix of crossing hallways without faltering, as he had walked them almost every day of his life. Some were lit and others dark, but he fortunately encountered no one as he made his way to his rooms.

One more night, after which there would be no more worrying about the mounting debt of kingdom and his subjects, no hungry workers, no empty promises, no borrowing, no pretending. And truly, he would try to be a good husband. For his own honor’s sake, even if Joanna had none of her own. He wouldn’t even have to see her, mostly; it could be arranged.

In time he came, carried upright by pride and will alone, to the privacy of his own bedroom. Misha had long since retired, following Jensen’s standing order not to wait up.

His head throbbed, but he hardly noticed it, or the way he jarred one shoulder and then the other against the doorframe as he made his way to his dressing table. The abundance of liquor he'd consumed required he sit down, not trusting his balance. His eyes were stinging now. He closed them, but that was no good, either, because the room rolled like the deck of a sinking ship. He leaned his head sideways to rest it against the wall, breathing in and out, trying not to think.

Suddenly, he was angry. Angry that his father had whored him out, sold him to the highest bidder. That he had assented, and that he found himself at this dead end. He wanted to tear the room apart, rend the fabric of this life and slash his way into a different one. Jensen flung his arm out, swept everything from the dresser top onto the floor, except for one container of lotion. That, he picked up in order to throw against the wall, then stopped, panting.

He held the lotion cupped in both hands. He’d given everything he had to give; this was his opportunity to take something in return. Why couldn’t he have this one thing? This one thing he wanted more than anything else? The only thing he wanted.

He stood and stumbled into the connecting hall.

The moon was so low and full it could have been sitting right outside of Jared’s window. Its light flooded the room with silver, and even the shadows were blue, not black.

Jensen made his way over to Jared’s bedside. He looked down at the man's sleeping form, a thin blanket clinging to the curve of thigh and hip and pooled in the dip of his spine. The solid muscles of his back and shoulder were limned with moonlight. He was perfect, precious, untainted by the mire that sucked Jensen ever deeper.

And then Jensen knew he couldn’t. Couldn’t stand the thought of sullying Jared, sullying himself further in Jared’s eyes. Dropping the pot of lotion to the mattress and falling to his knees by the bedside, Jensen leaned his forehead down to rest against the cool, sleek sheets. He was aware he was swaying, shaking, too drunk and stupid to get up and go to his own room.

He had no idea how long he knelt there, the room spinning, until he felt hand in his hair and jerked up to see Jared awake, propped on one elbow.

In the moonlight Jared’s skin was as cool and white as a marble column. He delicately ran a fingertip across Jensen’s mouth, outlined his lips. He looked down at Jensen for a long moment, night-black eyes drinking Jensen in.

Then Jared lay back, slid his arms above his head. The languid move presented Jensen his body like an offering: wide chest, the hint of soft hair under his arms, nipples the color of shadow in the moonlight, the sharp cut of his hipbones as they disappeared beneath the sheet.

Jensen sat fixed, unmoving, heat radiating from his chest down through his gut and loins. “You don’t want this. You don’t even know what this is.”

Jared simply stared into his eyes, then, without glancing away, pushed the sheet downward, kicking it off until he was completely bare.

Jensen felt his reason slip, loosed by the alcohol and chased away by his rising hunger.

“Have you done this before?”

Jared took a breath, a hitch of air, and neither nodded or shook his head, just sat up and pressed his mouth to Jensen’s. It was slow and soft but certain, and Jensen caught fire, rising up, grazing Jared’s bottom lip with his teeth, and kissing him deep, mouth open, tongue curling firm.

When he stood up Jared touched him without hesitation. His hands cupped Jensen firmly as he unbuttoned his breeches. Jensen was having trouble breathing as Jared shoved the material aside and freed him.

He felt as if he were being burned alive.

Jared’s fingers closed around Jensen’s cock, warm and stroking. Jensen sucked in his breath, put his hand on Jared’s shoulder, and tossed his head back. His whole body seemed to reach for Jared, to fuse and center on that touch. With his free hand, Jared slid his palm over Jensen’s hip, pushing the breeches down until Jensen could step out of them. Shirt and stockings followed until Jensen, too, was naked, Jared pulling him down on top of him, gasping at the full press of skin on skin.

That gasp brought back to Jensen that this was new to Jared, that these sensations so familiar to Jensen were ones that Jared was experiencing for the first time. A thrill of lust and solicitude rolled through him, and he reared back onto hands and knees to consider what to do.

Jared sprawled beneath him, hair wild in his eyes, chin lifted high, and Jensen could feel a slight trembling in his legs where they were twined, touching.

Jensen whispered, “I could weep, for wanting what you would give me.”

His head swam and he twisted to stretch out alongside Jared’s length. He rested the back of his hand in the center Jared’s broad chest and drew his knuckles slowly downward over his belly, playing through the light trail of hair under his navel, then followed that path with his tongue. Jared’s skin tasted clean and sharp, growing muskier as Jensen moved southward.

Jensen mouthed across Jared’s flank, wanting to hurry but forcing himself to tease, slowly moving along a rib, down to the point of his hipbone, a light brush of soft lips, heated breath, then a cooler stream of air. It made gooesbumps rise up on Jared’s skin, which made heat rush in Jensen’s belly, pumped blood into his cock.

He shifted to center himself between Jared’s thighs, pressing gently with his palms to open them up wider. Jared’s cock was full and hard, rising so that Jensen could easily have taken it into his mouth, but instead he spread his hands across Jared’s hips, his thumbs framing the base of his cock, stroking lightly there on either side.

He saw Jared’s chest heave, gulping air like he’d been sprinting, responsive to Jensen’s lightest touch, and Jensen found his own breath was coming hard, too. He slid one hand up to rub a thumb over one of Jared’s nipples, whisper-soft at first, then more and more firmly, skimming the other hand back and forth across Jared’s balls, until Jared was twitching, thrusting with his hips, his head tossing back and forth on the pillow. Jensen paused to soak in the sight of Jared, capture it forever, this power Jensen had to unmake him.

The minute he stopped, Jared pulled him upward into a kiss, for the first time taking ownership of Jensen’s mouth, demanding and frantic and so hungry he was starving. His hands scrabbled at Jensen’s body, his hips, cupped his ass, pulled them together to grind his cock up against Jensen’s, sending shocks up Jensen’s spine. The pressure building deep inside Jensen was overwhelming.

“I need you. I need to be _in_ you. I knew you’d… I… Please, god, please.” He was half-whispering, half-sobbing, forehead pressed into the curve of Jared’s shoulder. "Let me have you," he breathed into Jared’s ear, feeling him quiver. Jared nodded his head so quickly, Jensen almost missed it, but he felt Jared arch up hard against him, legs opening further.

Jensen pulled away before he came just from that—Jared offering himself up—dizzy and swaying with the weight of alcohol and desire. He fumbled for the pot of lotion and scooped some onto his fingers.

“Turn over,” Jensen told him, his voice shaking.

At the first touch at his entrance, Jared tensed. Jensen was grateful then for the alcohol, it slowed things down, made everything hazy and thick, his finger deliberate and gentle, pressing carefully, shallow, inside Jared’s heat, then drawing back out to circle around his rim over and over. He could feel Jared begin to react again, his hands scrabbling restless and unproductive against the sheets. Jensen started stroking his fingers in deep, two for awhile, then three, stretching and spreading Jared apart.

He reached for more lotion, then slotted his fingers in at a new angle, felt Jared tighten and thrash when he pressed just right. That was it for Jensen, he slid up onto his knees behind Jared, between his legs.

Jensen’s cock was throbbing desperately, his whole body was wound like a spring, but he held himself back, moving careful and sure. He rested his hands lightly on Jared’s waist, fingers feathering the edges of his taut belly. Then Jensen slid his palms down an inch or two and tightened his grip, tilting Jared up a little, brushing the sensitive head of his cock around that soft, slicked-up puckered hole, using his thumbs to spread Jared’s cheeks even farther apart.

He shifted, eased into Jared, every motion crystalline, jangling along the edges of his nerves. Jensen felt the ring of muscle giving, the head of his cock slipping inside.

He moaned, on the trembling verge of finishing too soon, and focused on reaching around, fumbling over Jared’s hip. Finally he had Jared half-hard, hot and heavy in his palm. Struggling to keep himself from moving, thrusting, Jensen ran his fingers teasingly up and down Jared's cock, over the head and then down the length, combing through the silky curls at the base, gripping more and more firmly with each stroke.

A deep tremor ran through Jared and into him, then Jared reared back, quick, unexpected, bringing Jensen inside him further and further, his muscles squeezing so tight around every inch of Jensen it was nearly painful.

He could see Jared’s hands gripping the soft sheets, dangerously near to tearing them. The room was silent except for their panting breaths.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you. You’re safe with me.” At those whispered words, he felt the tension in Jared ease just a bit, his body unlocking and opening up to Jensen. He rocked shallowly at first, giving Jared time to get used to it, watching rapt as his dick slipped into that tight hole where no one else had been before. He took his time, easing out and then back in, rolling his hips to reach deep inside, feeling Jared’s cock swell and start to leak.

Jensen brought his hand to his mouth, sucking Jared’s taste from his fingers. Then he licked his palm and took Jared back in hand, thrusting in and jacking Jared, both in a steady, pounding rhythm.

He found himself babbling, “Wanted to have you, be with you like this the moment I saw you. Want to teach you to come just for me. Only me.” Losing what was left of his control, he plunged into Jared's body. “Wish I could hear you. Need to hear—hear you tell me—” he pumped again, deeper, “beg me—” found that spot and worked it, “—scream my name.”

Jared convulsed beneath him, muscles of his back rippling. He spilled thick and warm into Jensen’s hand. The spasms of Jared’s release pulsed around his cock where it was held deep inside, urging him on.

"Yes," Jensen choked out, "oh please, Jared—Jared—"

Another thrust, four, five times as his hips stuttered, then he stilled, seated inside Jared as far as he could go and every muscle taut while he came with a liquid rush, his mind blank.

Jensen let himself drop down onto Jared, melting into the smooth skin of his back. He could feel pounding against his ribs, but he didn’t know if it was his heart, or Jared’s.

He tilted them sideways, Jared just going with him, pliant and loose-limbed. Jensen pulled his arms in to grip Jared tight, and held himself inside. He rested his head on Jared’s shoulder, not so drunk now, furious with himself and ashamed, and still he didn’t want to let go.

“Jared. My god, I’ve got to marry her today,” he whispered into sweat-damp skin. He felt Jared jerk under him like a horse struck with a whip.

Jensen pulled back gently, anguished, knowing alcohol and exhaustion were not enough to excuse his offense. He rolled away hunching in on himself, sick and satiated, when Jared caught at his wrist.

Jared laid an undeserved kiss on his shoulder. Jensen reached for him, but Jared slipped away, out of bed, and over to the dark shadows of the window seat. The moon poured frozen light across his face.

Jensen knew he must get up and go to him. Explain. Ask for forgiveness, on his knees if necessary. But his head weighed one hundred pounds and the room swam in silver and his eyes closed against his will.

 

*****

 

Jensen woke up cold, blankets kicked down to the end of the bed. Jared’s bed.

 _Oh lord. What have I done?_

He opened one eye just a slit and noticed that it was not quite dawn, the silver of moonlight had transformed to pale gray, and he was alone. Ignoring the pounding of his head and the sour bile threatening the back of his throat, Jensen sat up, scanning the room, empty. As far as he could tell, everything was in its proper place, everything except for Jared. He felt a sickening surge of remorse.

Jensen noticed something over by the window, so he rolled clumsily off the bed, and stumbled over. There he discovered a strange knife— its peculiar ornate handle affixed to a wicked blade— driven point-down, deep into the wooden surface of the seat.

He sat for a moment, staring dumbly at it, before heaving himself up and rushing through the connecting doors back to his room and praying that his servants had not yet arrived with the morning wash water and a demand for explanations.

Where was Jared? Where could he have gone? Would he have fled the palace, the country, left as suddenly as he’d arrived? Every second that went by, Jensen became more and more anxious, so that by the time he threw on pants and shirt, his heart was racing. Foregoing his boots and his coat, heedless of the guests that might observe his strange behavior, he shoved through the suite’s double doors at a near run, hard enough for them to slam back against the walls, making the soldiers on duty startle and shout.

As he hurtled down the hall, he called to them over his shoulder, “Stay there! Don’t follow me!” He knew they weren’t likely to obey the command, but he hoped it might delay them, buy him some time to find Jared, to… to… what? Rectify things? Apologize? Promise atonement? It sounded inadequate, even in his own head, certainly in person it would be much worse. But locating Jared was the best and only plan he could come up with at the moment.

He ran through the courtyard and through the gate on the seaside of the walls. He had no way of knowing whether Jared had left the palace or, if he had, whether he’d headed toward the water, but Jensen did not hesitate in his rush down the hill to the cliffs, the jagged terrain lacerating his bare feet. The rim of the sky was a mix of orange and lavender as the sun prepared to breach the horizon. Not a single cloud marred the sky.

Coming up the ridge, Jensen spied a now-familiar figure, small against the height of the rocks and the breadth of the horizon, slowly undressing, each item folded neatly in a pile. Still too far to even call out, Jensen ran on, watching in horror as Jared stood for a moment— poised naked on the cliff’s jagged lip—then disappeared over the edge.

A cry ripped out of Jensen, swallowed by the sound of wind and waves. The past year of isolation roared up in him, a tangle of yearning and sorrow curled on top of terror that he would make it to the cliff’s ledge only to see Jared’s body battered and lifeless in the dark waters below.

His feet were torn to ribbons on the rocks, but he sprinted onward, ignoring the pain, until he came to the spot where Jared had stood. He hadn’t given thought to what he might do once he arrived, but now he knew there was only one thing to do.

Jensen jumped.

The water was a brick wall, rushing cold into his mouth and nose. He couldn’t find which direction was up, the water dragging at his limbs, his chest bursting.

Then something was pulling at the back of his shirt, towing him swiftly upwards, and he had a disturbing sense of deja vu. He broke the surface like a shot and heaved in a lungful of air, harshly coughing and sputtering it back out.

He opened his eyes to Jared, both of his hands on Jensen, supporting him. The two of them floated face to face, oddly still, with none of the thrashing and bobbing Jensen usually associated with treading water. They were chest-high out of the water, which was odd, too, Jared holding him up with a vicelike grip on his biceps.

“What in god’s name did you think you were doing?” Jared gave him a rough shake. “You could’ve been killed!”

“You… Jared. You’re talking!” Jensen wondered if he were still passed out and dreaming, or if he’d hit his head in his leap from the cliff.

“Yes.” Jared’s face was bleak, eyes hard like Jensen had never seen them. Jared pulled away, drifting, putting some distance between them. “It appears I am.”

Without Jared’s support, Jensen struggled to try to keep afloat, even though the ocean swells were mild. Jared noticed his trouble and took hold of him again, supporting Jensen but keeping him at arm's length. “You must swim to shore,” Jared said. “The wedding is in a few hours.”

“No,” Jensen gasped. “No… Not without you.”

“What? You would abandon your kingdom?” Jared said it kindly, but Jensen heard the hurt sharpness behind it, as if he knew all the tones of Jared’s voice already.

Jensen looked to shore. They’d been swept far enough out by the current that he could just see the glass panes of the highest palace windows glistening in the morning sun.

“Besides, it’s too late now.” Jared’s jaw tightened as if to brace for a painful blow, then he reached out for Jensen’s free hand and pressed it against his ribs. He slowly pushed Jensen’s hand down to his waist and hip, and Jensen felt the transition from warm skin to cool, smooth scales.

He felt the smooth slide of scales along his bare feet, too, and remembered with a thrill of joy, that night of the storm at sea. “It was you? After the shipwreck?”

“Of course it was, Your Highness.”

“Say my name.”

“What?”

“Just say my name.”

“Jensen.”

“Say it again.”

This time is was barely a whisper. “Jensen.”

Jensen didn’t stop to deliberate or analyze or second-guess. He simply said, “I won’t leave you. I can’t. Nothing else matters, because I… I love you.”

He anchored one hand in Jared’s sea-dark hair and crushed their mouths together, rougher than he intended, but between desperation and fear and the rolling waves, finesse was beyond him. Jared’s arms came up, clutching Jensen around the shoulder and waist, fingers grinding muscle against bone.

They floated, embracing, for one second, two, and then a clap of thunder erupted from the bright, cloudless sky.

Jared cried out, and Jensen had to avert his eyes as a blinding light etched Jared’s outline. He slipped from Jensen’s reach as he writhed in pain, back arched, head thrown back. Jensen saw Jared’s tail for the first and last time as it seemed to split up the middle, forming into the shape of Jared’s legs as he cried out again and again.

Then it was Jensen's turn to support Jared, albeit with substantially less skill, as Jared floated, insensate. Jensen fumbled to keep Jared’s head above the gentle waves, managing to half-drown himself in the process. He settled on keeping one hand behind Jared’s neck, tilting his chin up, the other gripping his arm, floating, but not making any forward progress. Jensen knew he’d have to start them moving soon, because his awkward thrashing was tiring him quickly, but he felt—understandably, in his defense—stunned.

He discovered that he had not yet reached the limits of this marvel, when the two of them were surrounded in the water. Four men and four women, beautiful and strange, appeared in the sea surrounding them. Their hair was adorned with pearls and shells and delicate oddments. Clearly, these were Jared’s people.

They seemed ancient and alien, completely opposite from the instant recognition and comfort he had felt with Jared. They neither approached nor offered help, but watched him with bright, fathomless eyes, following at a distance as Jensen started to gracelessly tow Jared’s helpless, human form toward shore.

Jensen suddenly realized that they were, unfortunately, on the wrong side of the jetty from the beach. Rocks surrounded them, on all sides.

“Jared,” he called. “Jared, you have to wake up!” But there was still no response.

He looked to the merfolk in desperation, spitting out a mouthful of salt water, tamping down a rising panic. “Please, help us!” he begged.

He felt firm hands beneath and around him, lifting and pulling him toward the jetty. He laughed wildly, thinking for a moment that they were going to murder the both of them, throwing him and Jared onto the merciless jagged boulders. Instead, timing their movement to the surge of the waves, their rescuers heaved Jared half onto a hidden shelf of rock worn glossy-smooth from the incessant pounding of the waves, then Jensen himself. He scrabbled for purchase, finding just enough room for leverage and, with the last of his strength, pulled Jared the rest of the way free of the ocean’s grasp and onto the shelf beside him.

He sat for a moment with his back to the stone wall, gulping in gallons of air, tugging Jared, still unconscious, so that he lay pillowed on Jensen’s lap. He pushed Jared’s streaming hair away from his forehead and looked down at him. _Checking for head wounds,_ he thought, laughing, shocked and giddy with relief.

It may have been minutes or hours later when Jared’s eyes fluttered and Jensen’s heart leapt when he heard Jared let out a groan. “Shhh,” he soothed. “I think we’re safe for now.”

Jared looked up at him, dazed, his voice muzzy. “Jensen?”

Jensen leaned over to give him a swift kiss. He couldn’t help it. “Yes.”

As he shifted, helping Jared to sit up, they were visited once again. This time dozens of mermaids swam forward, carrying gifts. One presented Jared with a circlet, another handed him a scepter, a third brought a chain-of-gold necklet that spanned his broad shoulders. Several together came forward with a huge chest not bright like the other gifts but encrusted with rust on the hinges and metal trim, barnacles and algae clinging to the sides, and set it on the rocks at Jensen’s right hand. Another chest and another and still more, until the entire shelf and the surrounding rocks were piled high with treasure.

“What _is_ all this?” Jensen asked Jared in astonishment.

Jared simply shrugged and looked a little sheepish. “Um… I guess you could say it’s my dowry.”

 

*****

 

Jared finally convinced him that they must swim to shore, that they could not stay perched there, soaked and cold on the jetty.

“It’s alright, I’m a pretty good swimmer,” Jared teased and Jensen thought that maybe, perhaps they might have a happy ending out of this. That is, of course, not taking into account a hundred wedding guests and a bride likely to turn vicious upon jilting, all of whom awaited them when they got home.

Home. Jensen realized for the first time since he lost his family that there might come a time that the word would not bring him sorrow.

They left the treasure where it was, obviously, and struck out away from shore in order to get around the jetty and then redirected back toward land. Even without his tail, Jared was strong enough to tote Jensen along, and together they kicked and stroked and eventually ended up in the shallows along that stretch of beach so familiar to Jensen since the shipwreck.

Exhausted, they let the surge carry them in, crawling the last few feet up onto the soft, welcoming sands. Jensen flopped down, still half-submerged in the lapping surf; Jared fell down beside him. They lay still for a few minutes, letting the midday sun heat their skin.

“You’re naked, you know,” Jensen observed.

Jared looked down at himself, his surprise making Jensen laugh. Jared’s lips quirked. “I guess this will be awkward.”

“Not necessarily,” Jensen replied. He rolled over on top of Jared, pressing him into the warm sand and kissing his brow, the tip of his nose, his lips. “It could be quite convenient.”

“Yes, Sire,” Jared said, and kissed Jensen back.

Salt water rolled up over them. How he loved the ocean.


End file.
